


The King and The Lionheart

by ActuallyIronman27



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Character Study, Denial of Feelings, Did I mention this is a slow burn, Especially Uthred, Eventual Smut, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, and Alfred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 81,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24458620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyIronman27/pseuds/ActuallyIronman27
Summary: "I am nothing to him, and he is nothing to me."It had been a year since Beamfloat, and Uthred had never wanted to see the king again. Fate, on the other hand, had another plan.Sequel to "Rumination".
Relationships: Alfred the Great/Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Uhtred of Bebbanburg/Original Character(s)
Comments: 109
Kudos: 191





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Slightly graphic depiction of animal death (hunting). 
> 
> Set between season 2 - 3, sequel to "Rumination".
> 
> This will be multi-chaptered.

There was too much blood.

As Uthred pressed the blade further into the skin, blood, red and dark, began to gush out of the wound; it spilled all about his fingers, like an endless torrent of crimson, rivers of red trembling down his cold hands and onto the mud below. He tried to press his fingers against the wound – but he couldn’t stop the blood now, the red burning so hot against his cold skin, the heat seeping out from around the blade in trails of white mist. Blood was pooling so quickly beneath the body, trickles of red soaking into the black mud, and Uthred knew that he had completely fucked it up.

_Fuck._

With a sigh, he pulled his knife out of the rabbit’s body and dropped it back onto the river bank. The carcass fell with a wet splat, and Uthred sank back to sit down before it, to stare as the river’s tide reached out over the black wet marshes, towards the dead thing at his feet.

Gisela was going to kill him.

_Fuck._

The promise of game, of more food for the feast tonight, was the only reason Uthred had been allowed to leave the house today. It had taken him forever to convince Gisela to let him go, to let him and Finan hunt in the woods with the frosts of dawn, before the guests arrived – and now the only thing he had managed to catch since then, this stupid fucking rabbit, was ruined. There was barely any meat on the thing, and his attempt to skin it had damaged the fur completely; blood and mud soaking the dark grey fur as it just sat there, lifeless, dead, empty black eyes staring up into the grey slate sky. It’s arrow laid beside it, tip coated in blood, and Uthred should have just stayed home like Gisela wanted.

He was supposed to be with her now, not here, not sitting in the mud, staring at a dead bloody thing, letting the wet, cold sludge seep through his clothes and into his skin. He had promised her weeks ago, after all, to stay and help before the guests arrived – and that was where he should be now, with his wife, kissing her head, allaying her nerves, helping with all the preparations, the food, the children, welcoming the guests as was his due. He should have, at the very least, gone with Sithric this morning, to scout the roads to Mercia one last time - and then they would all be home by now, to help Gisela with the guests.

He shouldn’t have just left his wife like that, not now, not today.

Fuck, he should have just stayed at home.

But of course he couldn’t.

Not really.

Not when he knew who was coming to Coccham today.

_Alfred._

His hand seized and crushed around the blade’s hilt, the wood pressing deep into his palm.

_Alfred is coming today._

The wind played with the arrows in the quiver, and the rabbit just stared back.

_Fuck._

All around him, the forest was slowly starting to stir. Dark evergreens were rustling in the grey light, in the bitter breeze, barren, barbed branches reaching up through the green like fingers of black and bone; spring had just arrived, but the air still smelt like winter, white cool shades of fog and wind trailing between the dark tree trunks, little buds of green sprouting from the cold, black earth. Everything was wet and damp this early in the morning, but the mists had already started to lift, the frost-grey cold of dawn whispering away as the sun climbed up into the ashen sky. In front of him, the river trudged in peace, slow and true, dreary as the skies above – and the mist still lingered upon it, the world stirring with the sound of slow, rippling waves, the deep dark waters lapping at stones and reedy marshes as birds chirped in the trees. Wind was whispering everywhere, like a song, insects softly singing back – and Uthred could taste the river, the mud, the blood in the back of his throat, as if he belonged there, somehow, in the quiet brown reeds.

The blood sang warm and true against his cold skin.

Uthred didn’t want to go home.

At his feet, the rabbit twitched, a spasm of death - and Uthred didn't want to go back to his hall, to the noise, to all those people. He had to be with his wife, he knew that, but out here, in the mud, in the winds of the wild, he didn’t have to think about anything at all. He wasn’t the lord here, not really. He knew these lands were his in truth, but the river didn’t care, the sky, the trees, the dead fucking rabbit – nothing out here gave a shit about him. He wasn’t the earl here. He wasn’t a father here, not really. He wasn’t a husband.

He was just nothing.

Uthred of nothing. Of nowhere.

_Just like Alfred said._

Uthred breathed in the cold, grey air, the world an opus of damp green moss and soft, bitter rotting wood.

_Alfred._

He closed his eyes, for a moment, and breathed out into pale dawn. Something twisted within his chest.

_Alfred._

This wasn’t the plan.

This wasn’t the plan at all. He wasn’t supposed to think about him, not out here, not in this place. This was _his_ place, his land, his peace – and he was supposed to hunt with Finan and lose himself to the woods. That was why he was here. That was why he was always here – Gisela didn’t always like it when Uthred disappeared out here like this, but what other choice did he have? Where else could he go, to be nothing?

Where else could he go today, with Alfred knocking at his gates?

_Where else can I be free of him?_

Water splashed quietly in the cool breeze, trickling and frolicking against the black rocks.

_Is there even a place on this earth where I can be free of him?_

Something hollow flickered inside of him again.

_Damn it._

He hadn’t even slept a wink last night. He hadn’t slept a wink in weeks, not really, not since they got the letter from Winchester, not since they knew he was coming. All of Coccham had been sleepless for weeks too – and Gisela was the worst of it. It was completely out of character for her, though Uthred couldn’t really blame her– this wasn’t meant to be a normal visit.

The royal progress, in all its glory, had been marching through Wessex the last few weeks, on its way to Mercia. As news be had, Alfred and his endless pageant of priests and ealdormen were due beyond the river for Athelflead’s child’s baptism – a ceremony which apparently could not proceed without Alfred. It was a parade, of a sort, of at least a hundred man, and Alfred had been visiting all the lords in his way, dragging his party on a long route around the land, dining at every hall, checking on every other lord. Coccham was to be their last stop on the tour, before Mercia, and Beocca’s letters had detailed exactly what was required of them here.

A grand feast. For a hundred men. Just after winter.

Not to mention replenishing the progress’s supplies, if need be.

It was utter madness.

It was stupid, and selfish, and Uthred had absolutely no say in it. The winter had been mild, but they still had to scramble and stock up as much as possible for this. Gisela had spent the last few weeks fretting and panicking over everything – and Uthred had barely helped her with any of it. He didn’t want to do this.

He didn’t want to see him.

He couldn’t-

He-

_Fuck._

The hollow thing inside of him rattled again, and Uthred tried to breathe it out, to let it all out into the cold.

_Damn it._

Something was beginning to unfurl in his chest now, something empty and gaping, like a wound, and Uthred forced himself to look back at the rabbit, to focus on it – because this was his peace, this was _his_ place, and Alfred did not belong here.

_Fuck him._

He tried to clear his head again.

For a moment, Uthred just sat there, knees folded to his chest, and stared down at the carcass, at the blood, the icy breeze skipping along his skin, tugging at his long hair. The mud was getting a little too cold now, and a shiver trembled down his sides as he tried to calm himself again, to lose himself back into the frost, grey world. He could feel his bow creaking against his back, the arrows clinking softly in the wind, and he had to focus on everything around him again, on the world, on the rabbit, not him, not Alfred, because if he had to think about him, about what he was doing now, if he had arrived safe, if he was feeling well and-

_Fucking hells._

It wasn’t working.

It never worked.

It had been a year since he last saw Alfred. A year since Beamfloat. A year since they stood in that library and screamed at each other. A year and 4 months.

_Damn him._

He wondered if he still looked the same. He wondered if there was more white in his beard now.

He wondered if he was happy.

_Damn him._

Uthred sighed, and let the pain, the grief slowly bloom within his chest, the grey fog of dawn, the grey cold of his heart slowly melting in its wake. There was no point anymore. He had come out here to be nothing, to feel nothing, to be Uthred of nothing.

But it never worked. It will never work.

_Alfred lives in my veins._

A twig snapped behind him.

In a breath, Uthred turned his head, knife tight in his hand, his legs clenching, ready to spring – and instead, Finan strolled out of the woods.

Uthred sighed.

_Idiot._

In the waning thin fog, he could see Finan grinning back at him now as he emerged from the dark trees, and onto the riverbank, hopping over a rotting tree trunk with a wet splat. As he moved towards him, gingerly stepping around the muddy puddles, wind bristled against his long, warm cloak, and Uthred could see his catch swinging in his hand – 2 rabbits, and a pheasant hanging limp in the wind. His voice carried over the black shore, like a lilting song.

“Did I scare you, Lord?” he seemed to laugh, his grin wide in the gloom as he neared, and Uthred was too tired to answer back. With a sigh, he just turned back towards the river again, to the dull waves rippling away. He wasn’t in a mood for any of this. He couldn’t stop the pain from unfurling in his chest now.

_I just want everyone to go away._

Finan sighed loudly back.

“Grumpy still then, Lord?” he asked, and in the last step, he came to stop beside Uthred. In the white breeze, his brown cloak brushed against Uthred’s side now, and Finan just looked down at him, an easy smile upon his face. Uthred listened to the skipping, leaping waves.

“I am not grumpy.”

“Yes you are,” Finan replied, too cheerfully, and dropped the carcasses beside Uthred, onto the ground, splattering mud up against his leg, “What the fuck did you do to that rabbit?”

Uthred’s voice felt too rough.

“I was trying to skin it.”

Finan’s grin widened.

“Aye, and did you somehow forget how to hunt, Lord?” he chuckled back, and his voice was bright in the grey of day, “You’ve butchered the thing.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is that all you caught?”

“I said it’s _fine_ ,” Uthred growled, and with a huff, he threw his knife to his feet, to the carcasses, and folded his muddy, bloody hands over his knees. He didn’t want to talk anymore. He hadn’t come out here to talk. Finan was being too chirpy now, as always, his voice too grating in the dawn light – and he could feel the grief trudging through his veins, surging and flowing, like the murky river before him. He shouldn’t have let himself feel _this,_ he should have done more to numb it out, to block it out-

“Are you alright?” Finan asked, and his voice was quieter now. Up in the sky, the sun was climbing ever higher, the world, the heavens still a flat grey – and Uthred could feel Finan’s eyes boring onto him, watching his every move. He stared at the rabbit’s blood still stained on his hands, red the only colour left in the world.

He didn’t reply again.

Finan sighed, and with a wet plod, he dropped down onto the mud with him, his warmth reaching out and wrapping him like a cloak. Everything inside of Uthred felt a little like ash.

The mist whispered back.

“It’s only for a couple of days,” Finan said, and he turned his gaze out over the river too, his voice quiet and true in the mist, a strange balm, “All we have to do is get through the next two days and then, we will be free of him again.”

The wind picked up a little, and the trees rustled just a little louder, soft and dark, at peace in the world.

Uthred was tired.

“I know.”

“All we have to do is keep our heads down, and do whatever he says,” Finan persisted, and the ache inside of Uthred, the grief, felt dull and deep as it spread, as it woke, as if it belonged there, somehow, in his bones, “Let Lady Gisela do the talking. He likes her. Everyone likes her.”

“I know.”

“He will be gone before you know it.”

“I know.”

“We will be free of him again, you’ll see.”

Insects twittered among the wavering trees, among the muddy reeds. Uthred wanted to walk into the river and let it take him away from everything, away from _him_.

There was something dead inside his chest now.

“I doubt we will ever be free of him, Finan.”

_Is this my fate?_

For a moment, they both just sat in silence, in the cold black mud. In the distance, around the corner, Uthred could hear the first waking quacks of ducks.

The world still smelt like earth and mist.

They had to go home now. Alfred had to be there already. He couldn’t stay here anymore.

_I can’t be nothing anymore._

Finan’s voice was so quiet.

“Is that what you want, Lord?”

Uthred tilted his head up into the sky, into the wind, and closed his eyes.

“Hm?”

Grief was stitched into his skin.

“Do you actually want to be free of him?”

Uthred opened his eyes, and looked at Finan – and his friend just stared back. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He didn’t even look happy. He was just…waiting.

In the cold of the wind, in the grey light of day, something _knowing_ flickered in Finan’s eyes now.

_Fuck._

Uthred looked away.

He was too tired to run away from this now. He was too tired to fight back, to flee, to jump back from whatever this was. He didn’t want to know what Finan thought he knew. He didn’t want to know anything at all.

_He’s wrong. Whatever he is thinking, he is wrong._

_There is nothing to know at all._

All around them, the grey refuge of dawn was truly fading away now, and Uthred let the grief, the wind run through his veins.

_There is nothing to know at all._

“We have to go back now.”

“We could stay,” Finan replied, and Uthred could hear the smile back in his voice now, a cheekier, happier thing. He felt his own lips quirk at that, a flash of warmth in the grey – because he knew Finan was trying to cheer him up as always, to make him happy.

His own voice sounded a little lighter when he answered back.

“Gisela would kill us. Alfred would kill us.”

“Then we stay here for the next 2 days, Lord. We can survive out here until then.”

“On what, rabbits? There’s no ale out here.”

“Well, the things I do for you.”

And Uthred felt a smile grow on his lips now, and he turned away from the misty river and towards his friend. The pain thrummed and sang throughout his veins, as old and familiar as his bones.

Finan grinned back.

“We can’t stay out here for two days, Finan.”

“We could tell them we got lost.”

“We are barely 20 minutes away from the hall.”

“Fine, we both tripped and broke our legs then.”

And Uthred laughed out, into the pale dawn, and for just a moment, they both just sat there, chuckling together, into the cold breeze. He could feel Finan’s grin upon him, and the grey, the dead, the pain inside of him seemed to recede for just a second, a respite, a shelter against the ice.

The birds sang into the world, and for a moment, Uthred just let the warmth, the mirth take him away.

_He lives in my veins._

It was just a moment.

_I want to stay._

“I don’t want to do this,” Uthred said, out into the wind.

“I know,” Finan replied.

“I don’t want to see him,” he said, out into the mist.

“I know,” Finan sighed.

The world spun on. The wind whispered into his ears, like a sweet song.

_Damn him._

Uthred looked out over the river one last time, into the grey, dark waves.

_Damn him._

It was time to go home.

* * *

As Uthred and Finan walked through the wooden gates, it was clear enough that the royal parade had arrived.

All around them, Coccham was bustling and churning with life, in ways that it had never done before – up in the sky, the sun had risen high enough now, a dull, pale star behind the grey, but the crowd seemed to not care for the gloom of the day, humming and jostling among the wooden huts, the noise of eager voices, of hammering tools, of clacking chickens reaching up over the thatched roofs. Children were running between legs – and there were soldiers everywhere too, Alfred’s men, with shields and gleaming helms, carts and wagons trundling through the muddy paths, stocked high with food and crates. Priests wandered at every corner now, an endless parade of short, old men with swishing robes, and it was chaos, madness, Winchester itself bottled up in the confines of his walls.

In the distance, thunder rumbled away, but the air didn’t smell like rain, not here – in Coccham, all Uthred could smell was the foul crush of unwashed bodies, of mud and wood and steel. Something sour was cooking in one of the huts. A child stepped on his feet.

He missed the damn woods.

Beside him, Finan let out a low whistle as they ambled their way through the crowds, towards their hall.

“Fuck, he really did bring all of Winchester with him, didn’t he?” he jibed, as he shifted the weight of their kills over his shoulders, “You reckon we’ve got enough ale for them all?”

“No,” Uthred replied, as he pushed his way around a gaggle of priests near the hall’s courtyard, “You’ll just need to give up your share for them.”

“Oh, that’s funny, Lord,” his friend scoffed back, “Real funny. You’re a funny man now.”

“I’m serious.”

“Please don’t be.”

Uthred just grinned back.

In the last 30 minutes, as they had walked back through the woods, Finan had done near everything to lift his spirits, and Uthred had indeed felt a little lighter– but it didn’t matter anymore. As they neared the front doors of his hall, Uthred could see the soldiers standing by them, pikes raised to the skies, the priests congregating and whispering there, like herds of cows – and Uthred knew Alfred was in there.

He could feel his gut fall away, into the sea as he neared the open doors.

_I don’t want to see him._

Everything inside of him ached, and his feet begged to take him away, away from him.

_I don’t want him to see me._

Black claws grasped his throat, and Uthred and Finan pushed past the crowd and into his hall.

Everything suddenly felt so damn cold.

_Fuck._

All around them, the hall loomed large and whole, and people meandered everywhere, priests and lords and servants, men and some women sitting among his wooden benches as his own servants buzzed about, serving ale and bread. Chatter echoed up into the vaulted wooden beams as soldiers moved everywhere, hoisting supplies – and it was all a little chaotic, a little noisy, so different from what Alfred’s court usually was. At the corner, Uthred could see Aethelwold now, leaning against a pillar, smirking, his ale mug raised in greeting, and there was Steapa, standing in the crowd, arms crossed, a smile flickering onto his lips as he met Uthred’s eyes. Greetings echoed up from some of the lords and guards as Uthred and Finan walked by, and he could see Aelswith now, away from the men, standing by the table’s head – she was talking to Gisela, but she turned as he approached, her lips drawing tight with each of his step. Behind her, he could see Edward’s slight figure –

And then there was Alfred.

The crowd shifted, parted, and Uthred could see Alfred now, sitting at the head of his table, fingers drumming against the wood. His blue eyes were set firmly on him, unwavering as stone.

_Fuck._

“Lord King,” the words escaped his mouth before he could think, and everything inside of him felt like rushing cold waves, ice clinging to his bones.

Alfred’s voice carried over the din of the crowd, clear and true.

“Uthred.”

His feet moved instinctively, towards the king.

Alfred looked tired.

In the warmth of the hall, in the cold black depths of his chest, the king sat quietly and serenely upon the lord’s chair, his back stiff and straight, his face unturning; his fingers were twitching upon the table, but the rest of him barely moved, his jaw like stone, his shoulders tight, his skin sallow and pale in the half light. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, but he did not look like he had changed much since that day in the library – white still peppered his short neat beard, but his hair was still dark and fine, the dull gold of his crown glinting upon his pale brow. In the gloom of the hall, Uthred could see that he was wearing his royal red robes, the metal clasps gleaming down his chest, and his face was like stone, eyes bright with life, watching Uthred’s every step like a wolf in the night.

He looked like a statue, a figure of marble and stone, and like all the dreams Uthred had ever had sitting upon his chair.

Weariness had tinged his eyes red, but he looked beautiful still, as always.

Uthred felt the black claws tightened around his chest.

_Men are not beautiful._

Blue-green eyes watched him, as cold and unfathomable as the sea.

_Alfred is not beautiful._

“You’re late,” the king declared, as Uthred pushed his way to stand before him now, before his watching eyes. As he stopped before him, he suddenly realized that Beocca was there too – the priest was standing beside the king, slightly bowed, with a letter in his hands. Green eyes flashed up to him, and a smile spread across his old friend’s face, like a breath of warm spring air. Uthred found himself smiling back at him, of course he did, but it was only for a moment – a flicker, and just like that, just like always, everything fell back to Alfred again.

_Everything always falls back to him._

In the soft rush of the hall, of the bustling crowd, Uthred could feel his heart thundering away, Thor’s hammer striking against his chest. His gut was empty and black now, a pit, and all the numbness from before, all the grey of his peace, of the woods had fallen away – in a moment, in a breath, Alfred’s gaze had turned his blood to ice, the pain, the grief lancing through his veins.

Something like despair was writhing in his chest now, wild and feral, and Uthred had to shove it down, to bury it beneath his racing blood.

The king’s face was as ice.

“Forgive me, Lord,” Uthred replied, as the cold swept through his veins, as dread, woe sang beneath his bones, “We had not expected you so early.” At the corner of his eyes, he could see Gisela looking at him as she said something to Aelswith, but he couldn’t focus on that now. Not when Alfred was here.

_Steady._

There was so much happening around him, so many eyes, but Alfred was looking at him, at only him.

_Steady._

Uthred couldn’t stop looking back at him too, at all of him, at every damn inch, to see if he was alright, if he was safe.

_By the gods, breathe._

Everything inside of him burned like bitter ice.

_Steady._

Alfred’s lips twisted, for just a moment, and he looked away from Uthred, annoyance flashing across his face.

“Nonsense,” he said, and Uthred could hear the derision in his tone now, already, his fingers tapping erratically upon the table, “I’m sure you got all of Beocca’s letters. You must have known that we were coming just after dawn. We broke camp before light just to get here in time.”

Something prickly rattled within Uthred’s chest now, at his words.

“Well, I thought you would have slept in,” Uthred replied, and the words fell from his lips without thought, as usual, frustration suddenly bristling beneath his ribs, beneath his hammering heart, “You didn’t need to get up so early for me, Lord.”

Alfred’s eyes darted back to him in reply, dark, icy blue. To his left, he could see Gisela making her way over to him now, her blue dress stark among the greys and browns of Alfred’s men. Finan cleared his throat behind him, amidst the chattering crowd.

Uthred forced his shoulders to relax, to ease, to pretend that he didn’t feel anything at all.

_Steady._

Everything inside of him felt like a storm, like cold, desperate, thrashing waves, but he wasn’t going to let them see it. Alfred would not get to see it.

_Steady._

Alfred narrowed his eyes, and when he replied, his voice was smooth and cool, like steel.

“An ealdorman is supposed to greet his king when he arrives on a royal progress, Uthred. That is the custom.”

“I know, Lord, but we went for a hunt and got lost.”

“Lost? You’ve lived here for years.”

“Yes,” Uthred replied, and the words were just tumbling out now, “But then we both tripped and broke our legs.”

Behind him, Finan choked down a laugh, and Alfred just glared at him in reply.

_Idiot._

A muscle jumped at Alfred’s jaw.

_Why am I such a fucking idiot?_

In the half-light, the king’s fingers began to drum a little faster, his face like ice and by his side, Beocca had dropped his smile – he was glaring at Uthred now too, in the way he usually did, willing him to behave for fucking once. He could see Aethelwold grinning in the corner, and Gisela was slipping her hand into the crook of his arm now, her body pressing up into his side.

He offered her a quick glance, but she was watching the king with her own stony gaze, lips pressed tight, armour on. Aelswith was slowly trailing back to Alfred’s side too, and all around them, the lords and servants seemed to quieten just a little, watching out of the corner of their eyes. Soldiers still barked from the door as goods were carried in, crates of furs and food, of little comforts of court.

For a moment, Alfred’s eyes darted about Uthred’s frame, studying him, impassive, taking in his muddy clothes, his tattered old bow. His gaze flickered down to his legs, as if to truly check if they were broken or not.

Uthred felt his gut fall away into the deep black waves.

_Steady._

“It is good to know that you are still as childish as ever, Uthred,” Alfred said, and Uthred felt raw and naked and unworthy beneath his searching gaze. His blue eyes darted up to his face again, and Uthred swallowed down the thrashing waves.

“He was only teasing, Lord,” Gisela said, as she squeezed his arm.

“I know,” Alfred replied, and his jaw tightened just a little, “It is all he ever does.” Uthred didn’t bother to say anything else. Beside him, Gisela burned warm against his side, like a hearth.

For a moment, no one spoke, and the hall just bustled away. Beocca was still glaring, jaw tight, and Uthred just watched the king in his chair.

Alfred just watched him back.

_Men are not beautiful._

He had missed that face. He had missed those hands.

_Alfred is not-_

“Is everything prepared for the feast?” Aelswith asked, and Uthred blinked - for a moment, he tore his eyes away from Alfred, and there was his wife, by his side, standing a little behind his chair now, a hand coming up to rest against its back. She was scowling at him now, lips twisted as she spoke, and Uthred hadn’t really paid attention to her until now.

He didn’t really want to pay attention to anyone but _him._

_Steady._

Harsh, cold dark eyes glowered at him from over the king’s shoulder, and Uthred watched as Alfred tilted his head slightly towards her, with a ready ear.

_Fuck._

Something hot burned in his chest, like red-hot steel.

_Steady._

Gisela answered promptly enough.

“Yes it is, my lady,” his wife replied, and Aelswith's gaze turned to her, softening for a moment, as Alfred’s eyes turned away from them, from him, down onto the table, “The food will be prepared by dusk, but your beds are ready above, should you wish to rest first."

Behind Aelswith, hidden in her shade, Uthred could see Edward skulking away, but no one seemed to bother with him. His mother shook her head as the scowl deepened on her face.

“No, we don’t sleep at this hour,” she retorted, and Uthred just watched Alfred’s hands, long, clever fingers tapping upon the table, to some soundless song. He was frowning now, down at his hands, in thought – and the waves suddenly lurched inside of Uthred’s chest, the cold black waters rushing up to his throat. Behind him, he could feel Finan shuffle a little closer, and something wild was starting to race beneath his skin now, something frantic – because Alfred was just sitting there, looking away, and everyone was talking now, his damn wife-

_Steady._

He could see the frown creasing upon Alfred’s brow, and something irrational, something dangerous inside of him wanted to reach out and ease it away, to _touch-_

_No, fuck, just steady. Just breathe._

He tried to swallow it, to rein it back but it was slipping, he was slipping, and he could feel his hands clenching-

“The king told me that you have a church here,” and Aelswith was talking again, her dark eyes watching him, her hand falling down from the chair’s back and onto the king’s shoulder, “We should pray a while first, should we not, my king?”

Alfred blinked at that, and looked up at her– and Uthred gritted his teeth. Her hand was pale against the red of his coat, and he had seen it a hundred times before, but it was _wrong_ and –

_Fucking hell._

It didn’t make sense. The waves were trashing and turning and Uthred was losing his damn mind.

_Fuck._

He squeezed Gisela’s arm to his side, as Alfred smiled faintly up at his wife. By the chair, Beocca just watched Uthred in silence.

_Breathe._

“Yes, I agree,” the king replied, and the smile flickered off his face as looked back at Uthred now, Aelswith’s hand still gentle on his shoulder, “I believe Hild will be at the church? It would be good to see her again.”

Something mad, something wild surged through his veins as Uthred forced the words out now, his jaw wound too tight.

“Yes, Lord,” he said, and he felt Gisela squeeze his arm back, “But you will likely find her in the hut beside it. It’s a nunnery now. Or the beginnings of one.”

Alfred raised his brow at that, and Aelswith actually smiled.

“How excellent!” she remarked, turning her smile down onto the king. Alfred’s lips twitched.

“A nunnery, Uthred?”

_Steady._

“Hild insisted, Lord.”

_Breathe._

A small smile curled onto Alfred’s lips.

Uthred felt the madness consume him entirely.

_Fuck._

For a moment, for just a second, Alfred looked at him in silence, a sliver of a smile quirking at his lips, a half-amused thing, and Uthred didn’t understand it, he didn’t understand anything anymore. All around them, the hall hummed on, and there was something fond on Alfred’s face now, in memory of Hild. His eyes fell down to the table again, as he smiled, and it was such a gentle thing, a small quiet thing, and Uthred-

_Fuck._

Uthred was losing control now.

Alfred was smiling, not at him, and he was losing all control.

_Damn him._

Everything inside of him felt like surging waves, like racing flames, and he was losing to it, he was lost to it, it was all that was left. He didn’t understand why he was feeling this.

_Damn him._

He didn’t want to do this anymore.

The king’s smile flickered back to him, a smile not meant for him.

“A nunnery,” he said, and Uthred clenched his fist and focused on the way his fingernails dug into his palm, “You have a nunnery, Uthred.”

The smile did not belong to him. Alfred never smiled at him.

_Steady._

“I wouldn’t go that far, Lord,” he replied, and watched the blue of his eyes, “It’s just a hut.”

“No, you have a nunnery,” Alfred smiled, and grief sang within his veins.

_I can’t do this anymore._

In a breath, Uthred pulled away from Gisela’s arm, and reached up to unhook the quiver’s sling around his chest. He tore his eyes away from Alfred, and looked down to his muddy boots as he spoke, as he moved, as he focused on anywhere else.

“Will you excuse me, Lord?” he said, and pulled the quiver and bow off his back, “There is much I need to do now.” Beside him, Gisela turned to glare, a quiet, cold thing, but he didn’t really care anymore. He needed to move. He needed to leave. Aelswith’s voice cut through like ice.

“No, Uthred, you will lead us to the nunner-”

“No, it’s alright, my dear. I remember the way,” Alfred cut her off, and in a breath, he was on his feet too, the chair dragging loudly in the murmur of the hall. He raised his hand to placate his wife, but the smile was gone now, his face was blank, and Uthred didn’t care, he had to _go-_

He couldn’t do this anymore.

Alfred wasn’t looking at him anymore.

_Of course._

_As I deserve._

_I am nothing to him, and he is nothing to me._

Alfred’s voice was suddenly like steel again.

“You may go, Uthred,” he said, and then, without a pause, he started to move away from the table, guards jostling quickly to his side. It was sudden, like goddamn whiplash – but Alfred was leaving now, and Aelswith and Edward were going with him too, parting the crowd as they left the hall. Aelswith scowled one last time at him as she followed Alfred, and Father Beocca went with them too, shooting a glare back at him, and Uthred just –

Uthred didn’t watch them go. No, he just let the pain claw through his chest as Alfred and his small party walked out of the hall. The crowd thinned as some followed the king, but the rest just bustled on, in the warmth.

Uthred closed his eyes.

_Fuck._

He wanted to sleep now.

“That was rude, Uthred,” Gisela glared, and Uthred just nodded in reply. He reached behind him to grab the kills from Finan, and didn’t bother to meet his eyes.

“I know.”

“He was trying to be nice-”

“I _know_ ,” he said, and as he turned back, he quickly reached down to cup her cheek in passing. He could feel her start to say more, her hands coming up to stop him – but he was moving now too, walking away into the darkness of the hall, into his home. Alfred had left already, and behind him, he could hear Gisela calling his name – but Uthred didn’t turn back.

He didn’t want to do this anymore.

He didn’t want to be anything anymore.

“Uthred!”

He was fleeing again, but what else could he do? What else could he ever do?

“Uthred!”

He went to find some ale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, phew! So yes, that took forever, but I am not really good at ending chapters, and it was such a bitch to write. Im working on it, though, so it should get better with time. I know this chapter was also a bit heavy with the emotions, but I just wanted to set it up a bit, before diving into the action next. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading, and please leave any comments and kudos if you want! I will try to reply them this time :) Thank you, I'll post the next chapter soon!


	2. The Feast

It was going to rain tonight.

There was no doubt about it.

Up above, the skies rumbled a low, dark thunder, and even as Uthred gulped down his fourth mug of ale, he could feel it, the low thrumming in the night air, the twinging of old scars on his back, the promise of a spring thunderstorm ringing deep beneath his bones. The air smelt like rain already, the breeze cold and bitter, like the earth – and Uthred knew, without a doubt, that in a moment, in a breath, Thor himself would strike against the skies and drown them all, food and ale entire.

It was going to be a thunderstorm.

And no one seemed to care.

No, everyone was too drunk for that already.

_As I should be._

He took another gulp of ale.

_Why the fuck am I not drunk yet?_

All around him, the feast just carried on, the courtyard thrumming with life as the crowd reveled among the wooden benches, their mirth echoing up into the heavy skies; it had been 2 hours or so since the feast began, and the crowd was consumed by it now, the soldiers and priests and lords mingling among the guttering lamps, their laughter and chatter loud and clear in the cool night air. Behind him, in the hall, Uthred could hear the rest of the feast surging on, and when he looked over his shoulder, he could see the same merriment in there, the same carousing, men half-drunk and grinning, the warmth spilling out through the doors and into the night, onto his back. Out here in the courtyard though, the men were even rowdier – beneath the heavy skies, beyond the wooden walls of the hall, all were free from Alfred’s gaze, shouts and cheers bursting out from tables as soldiers told their tales, as men took to song and laughed freely into the night. Firelight sputtered at every other corner, wind and laughter trilling through the cold air – and with a sigh, Uthred just closed his eyes, and turned his face up to the night sky. 

_Fuck._

It felt good to breathe again.

It was the first time all night that Uthred had managed to escape, to sneak out of the bustling hall, and out here in the night, with his ale. The last 2 hours in there had been a dreary nightmare, but now, out here, in the shadow of the doorway, in the stirring breeze, Uthred could finally breathe again. The air was clear out here, free and true, away from the smoky heat of the hall, and no one was looking at him anymore – no, the shadows, the dark hid him here, and it was the only relief, the only peace he had gotten all night.

Everyone was too drunk, and too happy here to bother with him now.

He didn’t have to be the lord out here, not right now. He didn’t have to exist here, in the dark, where no one could really see him.

He didn’t have to talk and bear and listen and nod and-

_Fuck._

He was so tired of this.

He was so tired of being near _him_.

All around him, the crowd laughed and sang, the mud wet and foul beneath their feet– and even out here, in the night, Uthred could see feel Alfred there, in his bones. He didn’t want to turn back to look at him – but he knew exactly where the king was still, sitting at the raised table prepared for him at the back of the hall, with his wife and son, with Gisela. Uthred had spent the first hour of the feast there with them, trapped away from the rest of the swirling mirth, picking at his food as the flutes sang on, as the heat and smoke clawed around his throat. Alfred had just sat there the entire time, talking to Gisela and Aelswith, ignoring Uthred almost entirely – but it was exactly what Uthred had wanted anyway. He hadn’t had the strength to talk to him at all. He didn’t even want to look at him now.

There was no point to it.

There was nothing to be said at all.

Alfred had barely looked at him all evening, had barely said a word to him, and Uthred just felt like a sullen child now, sulking at the door, hiding in the dark. The mug was warm in his hand, and he didn’t care that Alfred was ignoring him.

No, this was what he wanted.

He didn’t want to talk to Alfred tonight.

He had never wanted to talk to Alfred again.

This was what he wanted.

_Why can’t this night just fucking end?_

Something hollow flickered within his chest, lost amidst the grey.

_Why the fuck aren’t I drunk yet?_

Uthred opened his eyes and look back into the crowd, into the wilding feast. Further on, beyond the courtyard, he could see the smallfolk rejoicing in the night too, laughing in the alleys, chattering on their porches, a few trailing up to the soldiers, ale in hand – and he just leaned back against the door and took another swig of his ale. The drink wasn’t working. He could barely feel the alcohol, could barely lose himself – all around him, drunken laugher pierced through the night, and his head was still clear, his thoughts still loud. Ragnar always said that Saxon ale was never strong enough for a Dane, and he did have a few barrels from across the river, from Daneland, stored below –

But no.

No, he couldn’t do that.

He couldn’t afford to get drunk tonight. As much as he wanted to. As much as he wanted to drink and forget _,_ and _feel_ something other than this emptiness-

But Alfred couldn’t see him drunk. No, he would hate him even more for it. He would be disgusted.

_Even more than he already is._

Claws twisted in his gut, a moment, and then gone again.

_He doesn’t need another reason to hate me._

Uthred stared down at the ale in his mug, and watched the firelight glint off it surface.

_Fuck it._

He took another large gulp of ale, and breathed in the cold wind.

Everything felt like ash.

Everything felt numb and dull now. 

Someone called his name.

In a blink, Uthred turned his head – and there was Sithric, emerging out of the shadows, quiet as the dark itself. He was moving towards him now, leading his horse behind him, meandering through the scattered crowd, and he must have come in through the south gate, away from all prying eyes. As Uthred nodded back in reply, Sithric handed the horse’s lead to a passing servant – and in a matter of moments, he was by his side, quick and quiet as ever.

“You’re late,” Uthred grumbled, as he swallowed down another gulp of ale. Dark eyes lowered to the ground, as Sithric nodded in reply.

“Apologies, Lord,” he said, “but the road was too muddy again. My steed was having problems getting through it.”

Uthred sighed. Of course. He was expecting this. It was the same report Sithric had brought to him after every scout, for the past few days. It was always like this here in spring, as the snow melted, and the river floods would be next – and yet here were all these fools, trudging through the country on their stupid royal progress. Uthred had sent a letter about this to Beocca weeks ago - he knew that it would only get worse when they got up to Mercia, and that if Alfred decided to come back the same way, through Coccham, it was likely he would get caught in a flood, but no one seemed to care about that. Beocca had rambled something about God’s grace in the replying letter, and it was all just so fucking _stupid-_

Uthred stopped and tried to breathe in calmly. Frustration prickled beneath his skin now, pushing through the grey.

_Good. That’s good. A problem._

_I can use a problem._

“Is it that bad already?”

Sithric sighed, a soft huff, and looked up into the night. Up above, the skies rumbled again, like a beast waking from a nap.

“It will be worse after tonight,” he replied, face set and serious, “With this rain… the river could overflow tonight.”

“Are you saying the road will flood?”

Sithric nodded again.

“Probably, Lord. Only the gods will know.”

Uthred sighed again. This was the last thing he needed. If the roads were going to flood tonight, then the progress would be delayed here.

Alfred would have to stay here for a few more days and that-

_No._

He took in a deep cold breath.

_No, I can’t do that._

He could feel the dread beginning to bloom in his gut now, flaring, twisting like a dark snake.

_2 days. I only had to endure him for 2 days._

The numbness was fading from his veins.

_There has to another way. This can’t, I can’t do this. Not this._

And yet, as he stood there, Sithric quiet and watching by his side, he felt something else too, peering out of the waning mist, something soft, and pleased, a tiny spark of warmth, and that didn’t make sense, of course.

If the road did flood, then Alfred would have to stay, and that meant more lectures, more talking, more of his stupid voice, and face, and hands, more nights with him under his roof, safe and warm, close enough so that Uthred could protect him from anything and everything-

_Stop._

He needed to stop thinking now.

He needed ale.

“What else, Sithric?” Uthred asked, and swallowed down the last of his ale. At the benches, he could see some of the village girls laughing and drunk on soldiers’ laps now, their voices brash in the wind. The last dregs of ale tasted bitter on his tongue.

“Same as before, Lord,” Sithric answered, back ramrod straight, “Followed the road up to the isle again. Still nothing.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he replied, and then, he paused. For a moment, something hesitant and unclear flickered across his face, like the shadows of a flame, but it was enough for alarm to suddenly race up Uthred’s spine.

“What?” he snapped. Sithric just shook his head.

“It’s nothing, Lord. Just, something strange.”

“Strange?”

Sithric paused again. Wind clawed against his skin.

“Speak, boy.”

“It was up on Sceaf’s Isle, Lord, as I was coming back,” Sithric said, and the man seemed to shift a little on his feet now, hands wavering, as if unsure what to do, “It was already getting dark, and the road was so muddy, and I may have imagined it-”

“Imagine what?”

“Voices, lord,” he replied, his eyes wide now, dark in the firelight, “I thought I heard voices, in the woods.”

Panic seized his chest.

“Did you check?” and Uthred wasn’t leaning back on the door anymore, a hand falling down to his dagger’s hilt, warning bells now chiming through his head. He looked around, but no one was paying them any mind, their words lost to the chilling breeze. Sithric nodded his head furiously, eyes as wide as a rabbit’s.

“Yes lord,” he replied, shoulders bunching up now, “I followed it, the whispers. I checked everywhere, but...there was nothing. There was no one else out there.”

Uthred could feel a headache coming on now.

“Are you sure?” He growled, because if Sithric had heard right, if there were voices out in the woods now, if there were _people_ out there hiding in the trees, then that could only mean one fucking thing.

_Fuck._

_Fuck this shit._

“Yes,” Sithric nodded again, and the man now looked spooked as he recalled, as the thunder rumbled and growled above their heads, as the wind sang its song, “It was only a moment, the voices, I couldn’t tell what they were saying. But that was why I was late, Lord. I checked everywhere. There were no trails of anyone, no signs, nothing. I couldn’t find anything.”

“But you heard people talking.”

“I’m not sure it was people, Lord.”

“Sithric.”

“Old Gorm said that the _mylingar_ haunt that island,” Sithric said, and his eyes were so young, a child still in that moment, “I swear, Lord, I tried to scout as much as possible, but it was so dark already, and if it was a _myling_ -”

“Or maybe instead of chasing ghosts, you should have been looking for men!” Uthred snarled back, glaring at him, and he knew he was being too harsh now, but he could feel the blood racing, the cold whipping, “If the Danes had come up the river, they could be hiding in those woods now-”

“Lord, we have been scouting the roads for weeks,” Sithric replied quickly, “We haven’t seen any signs of Danes.”

“Except for these voices.”

“It could have been the wind,” he said, shifting his feet back, lowering his head, “I checked. I checked everywhere. There was no _living_ person out there.”

And Uthred just wanted to snarl. Agitation crawled down his skin, because now he was just worried. He knew what Sceaf’s Isle was like – the smallfolk, both Dane and Saxon, had a hundred legends for it, even though it was nothing more than a plot of land in the middle of the Thames, dark and forested as always. No one lived out there, but the old road led right through those dark trees, and that was exactly the route Alfred was going to take once he left Coccham.

It was the perfect ambush spot. The trees there were the perfect cover, and if there were indeed Danes who had somehow eluded his scouts, and snuck onto that island to wait for Alfred, to take him-

He could feel the dread choking down his throat now, mania fluttering between his ribs. There was no more ale in his cup.

_Fuck._

Sithric watched with dark, anxious eyes, still so wary of his wrath.

Guilt thrummed in his chest.

“Uthred?” a voice suddenly called, and he looked back over his shoulder. It was Father Beocca.

The man was standing there now, a little behind him, just inside the hall, watching them both through the door with careful, searching eyes. Behind him, Uthred could see the rest of the feast still raging on, the hall still swirling with life, music twirling, but the priest was just standing there, arms folded, an expectant look on his face.

_Shit._

Uthred raised his brow in reply, and Beocca simply nodded his head back, towards the rest of the hall, towards the rest of his responsibilities, and fuck, Uthred knew what that meant, of course.

He was being summoned. He was needed back.

_Fuck._

_Fuck, I don’t have time for this._

Fear was crawling up his throat, and he couldn’t stamp it down, away into the mud. He could feel panic unfurling in his chest, like the creeping sea, and he needed more ale, he needed to think.

_It could be Danes out there. It could be fucking bandits. Alfred could be in fucking danger-_

“Let me go out there again, Lord,” Sithric said, voice clear, and Uthred turned away from Beocca and back to him now. Before him, the man didn’t look quite so skittish anymore, as if somehow, in those few seconds, he had suddenly resolved himself, his shoulders setting back, a gleam growing in his dark eyes.

Uthred gritted his teeth.

“Don’t be stupid,” he snapped, and he chucked his empty ale cup to the ground, Beocca’s eyes like daggers upon his back, “You will be useless in this rain.”

Sithric shook his head in reply, jaw set now.

“No Lord, I can do it,” he said, and he didn’t look afraid anymore, “I’ll scout all of the isle tonight, to be sure-”

“ _No_ ,” Uthred scowled, because no, no, he wasn’t going to do this now. He couldn’t send Sithric out there again. He could feel the worry, the fear, the panic choking down his throat, rattling about inside of him, clawing down his chest – but there wasn’t any point to sending Sithric out there now. All around them, the wind was getting colder, getting faster, and now, in the half-dark light, Uthred noticed for the first time how tired Sithric actually was. He could hurt himself out there now. If the river did flood tonight, then he would end up stuck on Sceaf’s all night, in the rain, with no protection – and no, fuck, Uthred wasn’t going to do that to him.

_And yet, Alfred could be in danger._

Dread swallowed him whole.

He looked back to Beocca, who just raised an eyebrow back in reply. Uthred couldn’t tell if he could hear them at all, if he was listening.

_Alfred could be in danger._

Thunder crashed above. Fear climbed his spine.

“Go home,” Uthred said, as he stamped his panic down, as forced himself to make the right decision, as he buried away his racing nerves, “Or come in and eat. Either way, you’re not going back out there tonight.”

Something defiant flashed across Sithric’s face.

“Lord-”

“You’re no good to me dead, Sithric,” he growled, and the man lowered his eyes again, the resolve easing from his shoulders now, “I won’t have you risking your life needlessly. We still have tomorrow. The king doesn’t leave until the following day.”

“But the voices, Lord-”

“Can wait until tomorrow,” he replied, and felt the unease, the anxiety thrum through his bones, “You will come to me at first light, Sithric. Bring Egbert with you. We will organize another scout.”

And at that, Sithric gave it up. He bowed his head, reluctantly, and with a final nod from Uthred, he was off, disappearing into the crowd as quick as he had appeared, blending in almost seamlessly with the shadows and the mirth. He was gone now, and Uthred breathed out another sigh.

_This was the right choice. The voices can wait another night._

But even as he thought that, the skies rattled again, each crash getting louder and louder, and Uthred felt this heart thunder along with it, the fear racing through his veins. He knew he had done the right thing for the boy, but those voices in the woods – how, by the gods, was he supposed to sleep tonight, knowing that there could be Danes out there, waiting in the dark, waiting for Alfred?

A part of him, all of him, wanted to charge out there now and see it for himself, but what would he even be able to see in this rain?

The rational part of him knew that he needed to wait till morn, like he told Sithric – but his guts were churning, and-

_And Alfred could be in danger, fuck._

_What if tomorrow is somehow too late? What if, if I don’t check properly, if I missed something, if he gets hurt, fuck-_

“Uthred, are you coming?” Beocca called, and Uthred closed for his eyes for a moment, and forced down the panic again. He could feel the tiniest drops of rain now, pinpricks of cold, falling upon his skin. Music sung into the night.

_Fuck._

His heart would not stop racing.

 _I need to talk to Alfred._

With a last deep breath, he turned away from the cold night, and walked back into the hall.

* * *

Uthred couldn’t drink anymore.

All around them, the crowd laughed and sang, and Uthred just felt sluggish now, the ale thick and bland on his tongue. He was trying to keep his head up, for Thyra’s sake, for all his friends, but the events of the day and the draft of the ale had finally done its work, the exhaustion bleeding into his bones, his head heavy and dull. The heat of the hall felt stifling and unbearable, and all he wanted to do now was crawl away to the stairs and up to his bed, to be alone – but no, Uthred couldn’t move. No, he had to endure this.

For Thyra. For his friends.

“Uthred, are you even listening?” his sister asked, from across the wooden table, her voice brimming with joyous laughter. Uthred couldn’t help but smile back. His head was so heavy now, but all around him, sitting in the middle of one of the long tables, his friends just kept chattering on, telling their stories, laughing their jokes. Their voices could barely be heard over the din, but Finan was the loudest as always, shoving Osferth playfully now, as the young monk simply laughed shyly back, still nibbling away at his bread. Hild was there too, sitting beside Thyra, drinking and smiling at them, and Beocca was by his wife, grinning away, arguing back with Finan now – and though Uthred was barely listening, it still made him feel a little bit warm inside.

He was tired, so damn tired, but how could he leave his friends now?

Across the table, Thyra was still smiling at him – and how could he leave her, when this was indeed the first time they had seen each other in over a year?

It had been too long. He had already greeted Thyra earlier, before the feast, but it felt good now, to sit across from her and Beocca, another part of his family finally home by his side. In the year that had gone, not much has changed with both of them, their faces and smiles just as before – and Uthred knew that he had only tonight and tomorrow with them. Soon, they would be off again, and though it was likely he would see them on their returning trip, it would only be for a while. Their home was in Winchester, and though Uthred one day hoped they would join him in Bebbanburg…

Well, that was a long time away.

And who knew what destiny had in store for them all?

“Is everything alright, brother?” Thyra asked, as Finan left his seat and sat his arse down on the messy table, to a nearby priest’s indignation, to Hild’s sharp reproach “You are too quiet this evening.”

“Am I?” Uthred replied, and reached over to briefly hold his sister’s hand, his heart warm with her smile. Thyra’s grin widened. Yes, it had been too long.

All around them, the feast was still deep in its throes, the tables half-empty of food, the air warm and bright, humming with a hundred conversations. Every corner was crammed with men and women, servants rushing about with jugs of ale; there were torches everywhere, the wooden beams awashed with dancing firelight, and in here, beneath the vaulting dark roof, the crowd still sang and drank and laughed, the air hot and smoky with the scent of roasted meat and warm baked bread. The rushes were filthy beneath their feet, but the men didn’t care, half-drunk with glee, the clatter of plates and the shrills of flutes ringing high up into the leaping dark. Children ran between tables, playing with hounds, every seat taken, and it was all so crowded and hot-

And Alfred was still up there, in the high seat.

All around him, his friends chattered on, Finan loud as a goose, and Uthred took yet another moment to watch the king through the haze, through the shifting crowd. Alfred hadn’t moved all night. He was still up there, with Aelswith and Edward, before filled plates, and in the half-dark light, Uthred could see that he was still talking to that courtier, the latter having taken up Uthred’s former seat by him. It looked to be one of Alfred’s advisors, an unknown face, a tall, dark-haired ealdormen, young, with a sharp, striking jaw - and Uthred turned away again and took another mouthful of ale. 

Alfred had been talking to him for what felt like hours now.

Uthred had tried to talk to the king earlier, immediately after he had come back in, with Beocca– but the king had been talking to the same man, and it had been Aeslwith who had summoned him back to the hall, to scold him about something trivial. He hadn’t paid any attention to her though – it was Alfred he needed to talk to, but the man had simply dismissed him, waving him off as he conversed endlessly with that courtier. Beocca had led him away before he could make a scene, but it had been an hour now, and they haven’t stopped talking.

It was driving Uthred mad.

He needed to talk to him about the isle, about the voices. He needed to let him know, to convince him to lend him some of his soldiers, to cover more land tomorrow-

But Alfred was smirking now, at that courtier, a slight twitch of his lips, and something hot and furious burned in his gut.

_Fuck, I need to stop drinking._

He turned back to his friends.

“Do you know how long you will be staying in Aeglesburgh?” Hild asked, as she sipped on her ale, her hair golden-bright in the firelight. Behind her, a serf was passing by with a jug of ale, squeezing through the crowded benches, her elbow just missing her head.

Thunder boomed above, just barely heard over the crowd. Beocca let out a rumbling sigh.

“At least a fortnight,” he replied, straining his voice over the racket, his arm snug around Thyra’s back, “It’s the first time the king and the lady will see their grandchild. I doubt it will be easy to part with her.”

“So, it is a girl then?” Osferth asked, as Finan reached over from his table-top perch to steal some bread from Hild’s plate, “There has been no official herald.”

“No,” Beocca replied, his skin red with the hall’s heat, “Not until after the baptism.”

“Aye, but isn’t that quite late already?” Finan asked now, as he chewed happily on his stolen bread, impervious to Hild’s glare, the musicians in the corner taking to a new song, the drums beating now amidst the din, “We heard the child was born months ago. Aren’t you supposed to baptize it immediately?”

Beocca sighed again.

“Of course she’s baptized,” he scowled, cheeks flushed with ale, “Father Osbert is the chaplain there, and he baptized her almost immediately after birth. It’s required.”

“Then what the fuck is all this then?” Finan snarked back, waving his hand around, “Why does Alfred have to drag you lot up there now? Winter’s barely ended.” Behind him, beyond the sea of faces, Uthred could see that the door to the hall was still open, the wind whistling through – and further on, through the door, he could see that it was beginning to truly drizzle now, the wind getting stronger with each breath. People were starting to trickle back in, and Gisela was there too, at the door, leading the men, helping to move the tables and food back in.

Uthred should be the one doing that, not her. She deserved to enjoy this feast, not him.

He took another gulp of ale, and he felt so damn tired now.

_Gods, I really shouldn’t drink anymore._

“It’s tradition,” Beocca said, as his eyes darted to Uthred for a moment, for some reason, as the flutes carried on, “The child will need to be baptized again, in a more formal ceremony. I mean, yes, usually that’s reserved for the more direct male heirs, but it is Alfred’s first grandchild. He’s happy. He wants to celebrate.”

“Happy?” Finan scoffed, and took a drag of ale from his cup, “Is the man even capable of that?”

Beocca frowned.

“Listen, you bastard-”

“But I don’t understand,” Hild interjected, waving her hands as a distraction, as Beocca’s cheeks got redder, as Finan grinned like an idiot, “Why couldn’t he have waited until summer to travel? It’s still too cold. It can’t be safe out there.”

“It isn’t,” Beocca agreed, as he threw one last glare at Finan, green eyes glinting in the leaping firelight, “It’s miserable, but I couldn’t convince Alfred otherwise.”

“Why not?”

“Because the child is sickly,” and it was Thyra who answered now, her soft voice barely heard over the chattering voices, the bleating laughs, “They say she barely made it through the winter.”

“What?” Osferth asked, concern on his face, and Beocca looked around quickly, as if to check if any of the drunken fools could hear them in this ruckus. He lowered his voice immediately.

“Don’t speak too loud, my dear,” he said, reaching out to hold his wife’s hand, “Alfred doesn’t want it discussed.”

“But it is true,” she replied, her pale eyes wide, “You told me. All of Winchester talks of it.”

“Beocca, is this true?” Hild asked, as Finan reached down to steal another piece of bread from her plate, as Osferth watched them all silently. The priest sighed again.

“Of a sort, yes,” he said, and he stroked his wife’s hand, “It was…not an easy birth.”

“And the Lady Aethelflaed?”

“No, she is well now,” the priest replied, “But she had taken to her bed for weeks, it seems. That’s why the king wants to travel now. He wanted to go up there months ago, in the dead of winter, but Lady Aelswith and I had to plead with him.”

And at that, Uthred turned back at Alfred again.

All around him, his friends kept on talking about Aethelflead and the child, and he was concerned to hear about her, of course – but his eyes found Alfred now, still sitting in the high seat, still talking to that man. In the haze of the smoke, in the wavering light, Uthred could see the crown glinting upon Alfred’s head, and for a moment, he just watched him, the king talking quietly and solemnly, as the man beside him nodded his head repeatedly. His skin was stark and pale in the warm light, and Uthred wondered if he was alright, if he still worried about Aethelflaed, about his grandchild – and of course he did.

Alfred must have been so worried. He must have been in so much pain.

Uthred loved his children, but he knew that it was different with Alfred. He knew what his children meant to him, and the fact that he had to just sit there all winter, and pray for his child from far, far away-

_Gods, of course he wants to travel there now, and not wait until the summer. He must have been in agony._

Uthred watched as the king talked silently to that courtier, shoulders straight and firm, face set in stone. He looked so far away, so small, and Uthred could feel it now, that urge beneath his skin to just reach out and hold him, to touch him, to shield him, and-

“His name is Cenric,” a voice suddenly said, just behind his shoulder, and there was Aethelwold, pushing his way to his side now, a cup of ale in his hand. He had appeared out of nowhere, from amidst the crowd, and was standing there now, warts and all, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What?” Uthred blinked, as the man began to push his way onto the bench beside him, the cup tottering dangerously in his hand.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Finan groaned, as they all stopped talking now, the group sighing almost simultaneously as Aethelwold shoved the man beside Uthred away and sat himself happily upon the bench, his breath stale with sour ale.

“Lord,” Beocca nodded dutifully, exasperation plain on his face. Hild looked like she had bit into something sour.

“Cenric,” Aethelwold continued, without a care, thudding his drink down onto the table and grinning up at Uthred like a snake, “The man you have been looking at all night, the one talking to Alfred still. His name is Cenric.”

Uthred wanted to strangle him.

“Who’s Cenric?” Osferth asked, as the group now looked over to the high table, peering above the heads, the nosy fuckers. Uthred didn’t bother. He didn’t want to look at him – there was nothing to fucking see. He gulped down the last of his ale, and turned away from Aethelwold’s grin.

_I need to talk to Alfred, about the Sceaf’s. That’s all. That’s why I was looking at him._

_I don’t care about this Cenric._

“He’s an ealdorman,” Beocca replied, and Uthred could feel his eyes on him again, “Of Dorset.”

“Aye,” Aethelwold replied, and turn his grin away from Uthred for a moment, to gulp down his ale, his body too hot against his side, “His father died just before Beamfloat, so he’s been the ealdorman there since. He spends most of the time at court, though. Not that anyone complains.”

Hild furrowed her brow.

“Does it actually matter?” she asked, as another thunder rolled above their heads, above the crashing din, “Is he important?”

“To the king, yes,” Aethelwold beamed, and his pale blue eyes found Uthred’s again, alight with glee, “He is Alfred’s new favourite.” He mock-whispered that last part, smirking like an imp, and Uthred couldn’t help himself now. He looked back at the king again, still talking, still serene and calm, like the surface of a lake– and that courtier, with the dark, thick hair, and sharp jaw. He still couldn’t get a look of the man’s full face, for he had sat like that all night, turned towards Alfred, his face in profile, but it was still enough.

The man _was_ young. His noise was sharp and long, his face clean-shaven, his dark hair curling around his ears. Even though he was half-hidden behind the high table, he could see the broad-set of his shoulders, the width of his chest, and Uthred knew that the man was a warrior, a soldier in his way. He must have been at Beamfloat.

His grin was wide, and charming, familiar with the king.

Uthred’s gut churned, and he felt the claws squeeze tight around his chest.

_Fuck._

“He’s young,” Hild commented, as she strained her neck to see, “And Alfred trusts him already?”

“Well, yes,” Aethelwold replied, “He’s taken him to counsel more and more, since last summer. The man’s always by his side now. Apparently, he gives sound advice. Doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome as well.”

“Why, you looking to hump him?” Finan grinned, as he stuffed his mouth with bread again.

“No,” Aethewold grinned, “But rumour has it that Alfred does. Hump him, I mean-”

“No, you will stop that,” Beocca hissed now, lowering his voice but glaring at the lord, green eyes blazing bright, “That’s blasphemy-”

“It’s not blasphemy to simply relate the rumours of the day, Father,” Aethelwold snarked back, smirking relentlessly, too damn tipsy already, “Everyone knows of it. And besides, it wouldn’t be so surprising. Alfred always had a…penchant for the pretty ones.”

Osferth shook his head.

“But he is a _man_ ,” the monk declared, eyes too wide, as Finan let out a thunderous burp, as Hild reached over and smacked his arm, “Alfred is a godly king.”

“Yes,” Aethelwold replied, and his smile was as a shark’s, “but a mouth is a mouth, to a willing cock, and Alfred’s cock is _always_ so fucking willing-”

And Beocca was furious now, snapping something at Aethelwold, hissing across the table – but Uthred wasn’t listening anymore. He just looked down at his cup, as Hild scolded Aethelwold too, fury brimming, as Finan just laughed on the tabletop – and Uthred didn’t want to listen, to see, to say anything at all.

He didn’t want to look at Alfred anymore.

Something howled within his chest.

Something torrid, and desperate, and empty, like a deep, black chasm.

The ale couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Grief sang within his veins.

_I don’t even know why I am aching again._

All around him, his friends were still arguing with Aethelwold, and he could feel eyes on him now– and when he looked up again, it was Thyra, watching him quietly with soft, kind eyes.

Sorrow dug its claws into his chest, and he was just so tired now.

_I am nothing to him, and he is nothing to me._

He didn’t look at Alfred again.

Instead, he reached out and took his sister’s hand – and as the world raced around them, as the crowd churned and burned like the wind, they just held each other, her eyes the only peace in the black sea.

* * *

It was finally raining.

As Uthred climbed the last of the steps, to the loft, he could the hear the rain thundering down on the roof above, pounding like the hail of beasts. Below, he could see that the door was mostly closed now, the rain heavy and thick through the barred windows, the wind howling through – and yet, the crowd still carried on, the feast on its last leg. Laughter still rang high, crashing against the stretching thunders.

It was past midnight.

Down below, the crowd had thinned considerably, the children back in their beds – but with the rain out there, there was really nowhere else for the men to go. Servants were already clearing the plates now, but the flutes were still playing in the corner, the ale still flowing like the Thames. The air was still so thick with smoke and heat, and as Uthred reached the loft, he saw his target as clear as day, standing against the wooden rails, staring down into the churning crowd.

Alfred was as still as a statue, cold, and pale in the warm light.

Uthred walked slowly up to him, wooden boards creaking, heart racing.

His head was spinning ever so slightly, the ale still sour on his tongue.

_Gods, fuck._

_Just fucking breathe._

When Uthred finally reached him, he stopped and leaned back on one of the beams, a good safe distance from the man – and Alfred didn’t bother to look at him, to acknowledge him in anyway. He just stood there, hands on the guardrail, watching the men and women below, and for a moment, Uthred just watched him in turn, the nearby torch wavering shadows all about his face.

Uthred could feel the warmth rushing about his skin, the ale’s curse, as the king barely moved before him. It was the first time all night that he had allowed himself to look, to really _look_ – and Alfred was, as always, just so fucking-

He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the stale ale. He hadn’t come up here to feel anything. He had waited all night for Alfred to be alone, and now that they were the only ones up here, in the loft, he could talk to him fully, to explain about the voices in the woods, the possible threat – but when Uthred looked back at Alfred again, he could only watch as the shadows flickered about his pale skin, his nose sharp and adorable in profile, lips still and calm. He could just about see the blue of his eyes, and he looked like a mural, like one of the paintings in his hall, still and ethereal, a moment of time immortalized in the firelight.

His large, clever hands were gripping tight against the rail, the skin so pale, and Uthred wondered what it would be like to touch those hands, to trace his fingers down each line, to follow the paths of his dark veins, skin warm beneath his hands.

He could feel the black claws twisting in his chest, bleeding and raw, his breath trapped away. His hands were aching to reach out, to touch –

_And fuck, I can’t keep doing this._

_I can’t keep feeling this._

Alfred’s voice was like an anchor, still at sea.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, voice clear and true, eyes still staring down into the crowd. Uthred folded his hands over his chest and tried to force it all down, to numb it all again.

“Oh?” he asked, voice steady, heart thundering away. The world was still a little fuzzy, from the ale, but Alfred was as clear as day, the crown glinting dully upon his head.

“Yes,” the king replied, as he watched the masses below, the twirling flutes and drunken grins, “You’ve barely said a word all evening. Most of the ealdormen I have visited the last few days can do nothing but complain endlessly to me of their problems, of their needs.”

Uthred leaned further back onto the wooden beam and tried to relax, to pretend at ease.

“Sounds terrible,” he said, face blank.

Alfred’s voice was as ice.

“It is a king’s duty,” he replied, and his voice barely wavered, revealing nothing at all, “As it is the hosting lord’s duty to at least try and converse with their king. I believe you have been avoiding me, Uthred.”

For a moment, Uthred did not reply. Instead, he turned away and looked into the crowd, his gut churning and empty. 

_Fucker._

Frustration twisted in the black depths.

_He was the one who ignored me. He ignored me all throughout the dinner._

He stared down at the feast, and watched the crowd churn like the sea. No one was looking at them. No one cared.

_He was the one who spent most of the night talking to that man. That Cenric. He was the one who waved me off, like I was a serf._

Grief writhed beneath his bones.

_Fucking arsehole._

Music trilled into the night.

“Apologies, Lord,” Uthred said, as he gritted his teeth, as he struggled to keep his voice level and blank, “You seemed busy.” Below, he could see the top of Aelswith’s head, almost directly below them, at the high table, still talking to young Edward. Thunder rumbled above, and the darkness of the loft felt like a blanket around them, hiding them from the world.

Alfred paused, and the silence swept, the rage, and misery twisting endlessly within Uthred’s chest.

His chest felt too tight now, his heart too damn fierce.

_Fuck him. Why the fuck am I here again?_

“Well,” Alfred said, and his voice was a little quieter now, as if lost in a thought, “I suppose Cenric and I may have talked a little bit too much tonight. And your wife tells such charming tales, I believe I quite forgot to talk to anyone else.”

At that, Uthred blinked.

_Was that a concession? From Alfred?  
_

He turned back, for just a moment, and watched the king. Alfred was still staring at the crowd, his hair soft and dark in the half-light.

_I don’t like the way he says his name. This Cenric. But still. A concession?_

His midnight red robe rustled against the wooden boards. His skin looked too pale in the firelight.

_But Alfred doesn’t concede anything._

A thousand thoughts raced through his brain, as music trilled from below.

“Well, I’m not busy now,” Alfred said, as he tapped his fingers on the balustrade. Uthred could feel his heart drop away, into the crashing sea.

His head was too heavy. He closed his eyes and breathed.

“Is it true?” and Uthred was blurting it out now, the heat of the hall climbing down his back, his skin slightly sticky with sweat as the rain hammered above, “Did Aethelflaed and her child fall ill?” He didn’t know why he said it. It wasn’t why he came up here – but as he opened his eyes and looked at him, Alfred barely twitched. His face was as blank as ever, completely unperturbed by that question.

Instead, the man just straightened his back and folded his hands before him now, his usual kingly stance. Uthred watched the slope of his jaw, the straight, firm lines of his profile, the tender curve of his nose.

The king raised his head, just a little.

“I see Beocca has been gossiping again.”

“All the men are,” Uthred quickly lied, as claws twisted in his chest, “Is it true?”

Alfred breathed out a sigh, a soft, quiet thing.

“My daughter is fine,” he answered, and down below, Uthred could hear Finan’s laughter cheering out, amidst the dimming ruckus, loud and brash as always, above the thudding drums, “She had suffered some maladies of birth, but her letters assure that she has recovered. It is her child that still worries her.”

Thunder rumbled again.

“She’s still ill?” Uthred asked.

“She’s still weak,” the king replied, as he kept his watch on the crowd, “She is better than before, but her mother still worries. My wife is adamant that that the child is fine, that Aethelflaed is simply anxious over her first child.”

“And you believe that too?”

“I suppose,” the king said, and shadows leaped about his face. Nothing was revealed, no emotion, no feeling at all.

_And fuck, why am I even surprised by that?_

Alfred never revealed anything. For a moment, he watched the king, and the man simply looked down, a hand now coming to press against his stomach, to knead slowly with his thumb. Nothing flickered upon his face, and Uthred could feel his heart lurching now, his skin racing with the need to reach out and touch him.

_He must be in pain. Despite what he says. Despite what he feels._

_He must still worry about them, gods._

“You’re not worried?” Uthred asked, his voice quiet, watching the king’s every breath.

Alfred didn’t even flinch.

“Children die,” he simply said, and his voice was brittle and cold in the smoky heat, “Her death would be unfortunate, but it would be God’s will. I had meant for her to be important, of course. She may be a girl, and therefore has no real claim to the crown, but she is still a princess of both lands, of Wessex and Mercia.”

“A princess of England,” Uthred realized, and he could barely stand how cold Alfred sounded now.

“Yes, quite,” the king said, and Uthred looked away, “She is a symbol of England. A promise, of God’s plan. Her death, as I said, would be unfortunate.”

Uthred clenched his teeth and stared down into the swirling crowd.

_Of course._

Sorrow thrashed within his chest, and Uthred turned his whole body away from Alfred now, to rest his arms against the rail, to look out fully into the crowd. He could see the rain still pouring endlessly in the distance, from through the door’s windows, and he thought he could see Gisela now, talking to Steapa, by said door. Laughter rang up clear and true, and Uthred didn’t know what to say to Alfred anymore.

He wasn’t a fool.

He knew Alfred was doing what he always did, pretending that he felt nothing, that he was but ice, but stone, walking upon this earth. This was what he did. The game. The act.

_But that’s not him. Not always._

Uthred remembered the swamp, from all those years ago, the firelight flickering upon Alfred’s face as tears tracked his cheeks, as sorrow trembled upon his lips. He remembered the way he hugged his son to his chest, as he stared at Uthred with such complete despair.

_No, no, I know him._

_Despite everything else, despite all of it, I know this. Alfred loves his children._

_And he is in agony._

Uthred wanted to reach out and take his hands, to soothe him in anyway, to take away the pain.

_If only I can shield him from this._

“Is there something else you wished to discuss?” Alfred said now, voice deadpan, and Uthred let the sorrow clang away at his bones. There was nothing he could do.

Alfred would never let him touch him.

“I need to borrow your men,” he said, as the claws choked down his throat, as he tried to focus on the only thing he could do for Alfred, “I want to do a full scout of Sceaf’s Isle tomorrow, before you head down its road. If it doesn’t flood tonight, that is.”

He could feel Alfred’s eyes on him again. Thunder boomed above.

“Have you not scouted the roads already?” the king asked, something contemptuous in his voice. Uthred turned back to him, and despite the empty black, despite the mess inside his head, he clenched his jaw and offered the king a little sneer.

“Of course,” he scoffed, as his heart thudded away, “But my man may have found something out there tonight, and I don’t have enough men to cover all of the isle by tomorrow. Not thoroughly anyway.”

“Found something?” Alfred echoed, raising a single brow. His hand was still rubbing against his stomach, in slow, straight lines.

Uthred nodded.

“Voices, lord. In the woods.”

“How terrifying,” Alfred replied, voice completely blank.

Uthred could feel a smile somehow twitching at the corner of his lips.

“It may be nothing, lord,” he said, and cleared his throat, willing the smile away, and turning back to the feast, “But I still want to be sure.”

Alfred did not reply, not immediately. For a moment, they just stood there, trapped in their world, watching the feast slowly wither away at their feet. Uthred just waited, as each breath ached.

Alfred finally sighed.

“Very well, Uthred. Do as you must,” he said, and then the king was moving away from him, turning back towards the rest of the loft. That was the end of it. Without another word, Alfred walked away from the rail and to the bed behind them, Uthred’s and Gisela’s bed given to the king and lady for their stay. He turned his back on Uthred and seemed to dismiss him, taking the crown off his head, already preparing for bed – and Uthred turned away too, cheeks a little warm.

_Good. This is good._

_I’ve got what I wanted. I don’t have to be near him anymore._

His heart raced away.

It was time to leave.

With a deep breath, he turned and began to make his way back to the stairs, to go back down to the feast, to find his wife and friends. He knew that it was time to end the feast now, now that the king was going to bed, and he was sure Aelswith would be ordering him to do so in matter of minutes –

“Oh, and one more thing, Uthred.”

Uthred sighed quietly, and stopped walking. He turned back slowly, towards the king.

“Lord?”

Alfred’s voice was as stone.

“You will accompany us to Mercia.”

Uthred froze.

_What?_

“What?” he blurted out, and his chest was too tight again, the breath frozen as ice within his chest.

“After tomorrow,” Alfred replied, his back still turned towards him, as he sat down on the bed now, his face hidden away in the dark, “When we leave for Mercia. You will join us too.”

Uthred couldn’t breathe.

_No._

_No._

_2 days._

_I only had to endure him for 2 days._

“Lord, that isn’t the plan,” he retorted, heart hammering now, his mouth suddenly so dry. No, this wasn’t the plan. He can’t do this. He can’t be near him-

“No, I suppose it’s not,” Alfred just replied, and he bent down to scrape the mud off his shoes, cold and aloof, unfeeling as ever, “But it’s been decided. Once the rains abate, and the roads are clear, you will come with us to Aeglesburgh. I may have use of your sword.”

And Uthred wanted to punch him.

_Was this Alfred’s plan all along?_

_And to what fucking end?_

_Why the fuck does he need me there? What the fuck is wrong with him?_

“Lord,” Uthred began, as he felt it now, the rage burning through, bitter on tongue, hot in his blood, “You don’t need me there. You have your guards.” He couldn’t understand why Alfred was doing this. He couldn’t understand why he was suddenly so enraged. 

_Bastard._

_What is he doing?  
_

Alfred did not even bother to look at him now.

“You will come,” he said, and that was the end of it.

Uthred could barely think.

Alfred said no more.

Without another word, Alfred ignored him completely now, his back straight, his silence as cold as the winter winds – and Uthred knew that he was being dismissed again, for the night. As the rain thundered above, he found his feet moving away, turning back towards the stairs.

It was decided now.

He was going to Mercia. With the royal progress.

He was going with Alfred.

_Fucking bastard._

Fury burned beneath his skin.

_What is he doing?_

Sorrow howled in the wind.

_What does he want with me?_

Thunder roared.

_What the fuck is happening?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, really sorry for the loong wait! I really am a slow writer, and I had to take a break cause I was quitting my job and needed to do so much shit for it. 
> 
> As for the chapter, I did try to make it as historically accurate as possible. Only thing I embellished a little is the whole concept of a royal progress - its a more later medieval thing I believe, and I couldn't find much evidence of it being a regular thing in the 800s, but oh well. 
> 
> Most of the locations are accurate though - Sceaf's Isle is now known as Sashes Island, and there was an old Roman road going through it. Also, fun fact: the actual Aethelflaed actually did have a difficult birth with Aelfwynn - according to some sources anyway. 
> 
> Also, writing the Alfred parts are really hard?? I know there wasn't much Alfred in this again, but I wanted to write all the characters in for a while. I promise there will be a lot more of Alfred coming up though!
> 
> Anyway, thank you for all your kudos and comments, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	3. The Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just quick note: I know that in season 2, they did mention that there was a burh already near Coccham, but I realised this after I wrote this and...this is my canon now thank you. Please enjoy!

Nothing happened on Sceaf’s Isle.

As the royal progress lumbered its way across the old, rickety bridge, the river rushing dark beneath their feet, Uthred looked back over his shoulder and watched the final whispers of the trees. He could see the rest of the progress, the carts and wagons, still plodding down the island’s road, a trail of horses and men still trudging along behind their king, unperturbed by the ashen-green trees – and Uthred wondered if they had felt it too, if they felt it now, that strange, dark dread, whispering in the wind.

_Probably not._

_These shits are never prepared for anything._

It _was_ better now, that they were finally off the island. It had taken them near half the day to plod through the mud, to get through those tangled trees – but now, as Uthred’s steed trailed across the bridge, just behind the king, he found himself breathing a little easier. The island was finally behind them. They had made it through, without a single hitch – and now, he could see the sun clearly again, the river winds whispering through as the afternoon light danced upon the murky waves. Up ahead, the road led on through the forested green, and within seconds, they were back on the mainland, the mud slopping beneath the horses’ hooves, the trees rustling in the breeze.

Uthred breathed out a sigh, something loosening in his chest, just a little bit.

Nothing happened on Sceaf’s Isle.

_So why do I still feel like this?_

Fingers crept up along his back, like whispers of pale white breath.

Unease twisted in his gut, like writhing, black waves.

Horses whinnied, loud and clear, into the chill, damp air.

Something was still off.

_What am I missing?_

It had been three days since the feast. They had only left Coccham this morning, at dawn, horses and wagons slogging through the half-drowned land; the river had burst after the storm, as predicted, and Alfred had had no choice but to delay his progress, the horses, priests and lords eating their way through Coccham’s supplies, like wild ranging beasts. It had been a nightmare of some sort, of cramped stuffy halls and crowded, raucous chaos, of foul, fetid manure and cold, dwindling ale- but the road had been too dangerous and Uthred could do nothing but bear it all.

The delay had given him plenty of time, though. While Alfred and his priests had langured away in his hall, waiting for the roads to dry, Uthred had scouted Sceaf’s one more time, with some of his and Alfred’s men. The land had swamped for most of it, the island a fleeting marshland – but they had still searched through all of it, through every crevice and darkened shade. They didn’t find any Danes on the isle, of course, no bandits, no ghosts, no voices – but Uthred still couldn’t shake it off.

There was something still _nagging_ at him.

Something he had missed, somehow.

_What is happening here?_

Mud sloshed against his calves as his horse slogged up the low incline, just behind the king. Behind him, he could hear the wooden clunks and creaks of the rolling wagons, of a hundred hooves clopping against the wooden bridge, and into the mud. 

Finan groaned aloud.

“Fuck, a snail moves faster than this,” he griped, as his horse trudged alongside Uthred’s, his shoulders slumped from mock exhaustion, “Can’t we go any faster?” Up above, the tree cover was sparser than it had been on Sceaf’s, half-green branches meeting above the road, like thin knotted fingers. The air smelt like bright green leaves and wet, black earth, the breeze cold against his skin.

Thyra’s voice was calm as always.

“It’s been like this since we left Winchester,” she replied, as she trotted her horse on Uthred’s other side, her red hair gleaming beneath the dappled sunlight, “You get used to the pace.” Behind her, Uthred could see Osferth steering his horse cautiously, studiously watching the soggy ground beneath, shoulders drawn tight with anxiety. Sithric slinked just behind Uthred, on his horse, quiet as ever.

Finan groaned again and leaned forward on his horse to peer around Uthred, to grin wryly at Thyra.

“Oh come now, my lady,” he smirked, his grin wicked bright beneath his black beard, “Don’t tell me that this doesn’t piss you off as well.”

“I like the fresh air,” Thyra replied, her smile sweet and dreamy as ever. Birds whistled about the trees, with the sweeping breeze. Uthred’s horse bucked beneath him, for a moment, a small slip in the sinking ground.

His back felt too stiff, tight with unease.

Finan just sighed.

“Well, all I can smell is the horse’s arse,” he grumbled, as he turned back to the road, his grin falling for a moment, as Thyra just kept her gentle smile, at peace with the world, “All I’m saying, lady, is that we just spent all morning crossing the river. It’s going to be _weeks_ before we see a bed again.”

And Uthred couldn’t really argue with that. As they trekked on down the muddy road, the tree shade growing thicker with each step, Uthred could see Haedde’s Cliff rising up to the right, the trees sloping up gently onto the low hill – and he knew that after all this time, they had only traveled a league or so since Coccham, less than an hour’s ride away. They had crossed the border at the river, and were in Mercia now at least, but they had leagues to go, and weeks to spend beneath the fickle skies. It would indeed be weeks, maybe even a month, before he saw Gisela and his children again – but what else could he do?

This was what Alfred wanted.

He wanted him here, for some fucking reason.

Behind him. Tailing him, all the way to Aeglesburgh.

_Like a fucking hound._

All around him, his friends chatted away, Osferth chiming in now from behind, horses nickering, and Uthred just watched the lines of Alfred’s shoulders, the lean of his back, the light grey of his cloak. The king and his entourage were just a few steps ahead of them, a small legion of priests and lords slowly trotting their horses down the muddy path. Beocca was with them, right by Alfred’s side, and Aeslwith and Edward were there too, just slightly behind the king, trudging on silence.

Alfred wasn’t silent though.

He had been talking since they left Coccham, conferring with Beocca and the lords by his side, voice clear like the river deep. Uthred couldn’t really hear them, not above the rustling trees, but he could see Alfred talking away, crown agleam, head turned slightly back to talk to his lords. His skin looked warm in the speckled sunlight – and there, right by his side, was Cenric, tall and proud astride his steed. 

Uthred looked away.

_Fuck._

Something hot twisted in his gut, like burning, red steel.

_I don’t have time for this._

It had been like this since Coccham. From the moment Alfred and his men stepped out beyond the gates, this man, this _Cenric_ had been by his side, and Uthred didn’t care, he was too tired, too frustrated, too uneasy to care. He had been too busy the last few days to notice anything else about this man, but here he was now, glued to Alfred’s side, his back broad, his clean-shaven face turned attentively towards the king. From behind, Uthred couldn’t see much of him –

_But I don’t care._

_Why should I care who Alfred listens to, now that Odda is dead?_

_Isn’t this what I wanted, anyway? Someone to protect him? Someone he could trust?_

Thyra laughed sweetly by his side, as Finan jabbered away. The wind smelled like the black earth, like wet, rotting leaves.

_Isn’t this what I wanted? Someone to keep him safe?_

And he didn’t know if that was the case, of course. He had no idea who this man was, what he was to Alfred. He didn’t even know what he sounded like, what he had to say. Beocca had said nothing else about the man since, and the only thing Uthred knew about him was what Aethelwold had told him during the feast.

_Alfred’s new favourite._

Uthred stared out into the trees, into the shadows and shades between.

_Isn’t this what I wanted?_

Insects chirped and screeched into the wind.

Uthred didn’t have time for this.

With a quick breath, he shrugged away all thoughts about this, about this Cenric, and focused on the woods around them, on the rustling green. The river was far behind them now, lost as the road curved among the trees, the wagons rattling and groaning behind them still. The road was getting drier too, with each step from the river, and all around them, the green was beginning to press thicker, the woods becoming denser and darker – and Uthred could still feel it, that strange dread, twisting silently within his guts.

It hadn’t left him at all, really, not since the island. He had gotten distracted with his thoughts, with Alfred and his lords, with his friends – but it was still there, this unease, this disquiet, like a lodestone just sitting there, at the base of his spine. He could feel it grow now, as the trees grew thicker. Something was still off.

Sceaf’s was far behind them now, but that didn’t mean that they were safe, that Alfred was safe.

Uthred knew these woods, after all. He knew what this place was like.

This was Mercia.

There were no burhs out here, not yet. No, this land was wilder. Unpredictable. Unstable. The great lords of Mercia did little to protect their people on most days, and he had spent so much of his time out here, among these trees, protecting the smallfolk from bandits and Danes.

And maybe that was it.

Maybe that was why he felt so uneasy.

This was Mercia. The Danes were freer here.

Danes who would love to get their hands on the King of Wessex.

_Is that what this is then? Paranoia?_

Uthred watched between the trees, his shoulders drawing tighter with each step. He knew to trust his instincts. His gut never led him wrong.

_Or am I really missing something? Is there something wrong?_

“Uthred!” a voice suddenly called, and his head snapped back, his heart ajolt – and it was Beocca, in front of him, half-turned back in his saddle. They were all still walking leisurely, but half of the lords in front of him were looking back at him now, their dour faces scowling beneath the dappled light. He could see Aeslwith looking back at him too, with a grimace, and Beocca was waving him over now, to join them at the king’s side.

Alfred hadn’t bothered to look back at him at all.

“I believe that’s your cue, Lord,” Finan quipped beside him, his horse snorting as if in agreement. He could feel all their eyes on him now.

Beocca waved his hand impatiently, glaring back with a scowl.

Uthred sighed.

Without a word, he pushed his horse forward, away from his friends, and towards the king’s entourage. The small crowd of lords and priests parted in his wake, and soon, he had slipped between Beocca and Alfred, his horse plodding through the earth.

“Uthred, good, there you are,” Alfred said, as their horses brushed against each other. For a moment, the king spared him a glance, a fleeting glimpse, and then he was turning back towards the road, head held high. His grey cloak was draped about his shoulder, and down the horse’s side.

Uthred could feel something tugging at his chest now, above the unease. He was close to Alfred again.

_I don’t have time for this._

“Lord,” he replied, voice blank, and looked back out to the trees. He needed to be prepared. He needed to focus on this nagging thing, this strange, gnawing anxiety. In front of them, Uthred could see the vanguards clearly now, a few soldiers enclosing the king and his entourage, astride their large steeds. Steapa was there too, a shield before the king, watching the trees as well – but it did little to abate the dread stirring in his gut.

_What am I missing?_

“We have been discussing the lay of the land, Uthred,” Alfred said now, as the progress carried on, through the thickening trees, “You are well acquainted with this part of Mercia, are you not?” Behind them, the lords chattered amongst themselves, in low voices, whispers amidst the clopping hooves. Beocca had pulled back to walk among them and talk, his eyes still heavy on Uthred’s back.

“Yes, Lord,” Uthred replied, as he kept his watch on the trees, “The Danes like to raid here sometimes, especially in the summer. We fight them off, when we can.” His hands felt restless now, his body twitchy.

He could _feel_ Alfred at his side, like a slow, burning flame.

_Focus, Uthred._

A new voice broke through suddenly, above the thudding hooves.

“And do they always come by the river?” it said, low and deep. Uthred snapped his head around, towards the voice - and of course, _of course,_ it was that man, that Cenric, looking at him now. He was still on Alfred’s other side, on his right, and Uthred had forgotten about him for a moment, until now.

_Ah, fuck._

It was the closest he had ever been to this man, and now Uthred could see him entirely, riding astride his horse, tall and strapping, shoulders broad. He was peering at Uthred from around the king, watching him with clear, blue eyes – and there was something clever about his face, something proud and shrewd, his pale brow furrowed as he waited for an answer.

Alfred didn’t say anything but watched the road ahead.

“What?” Uthred gritted his teeth as something red flared within him now, burning through his chest.

Cenric lifted a brow.

“The Danes,” he replied, and he raised his head just a little, his sharp jaw set, “Do they always travel here by the river, when they raid?” 

Uthred didn’t want to answer the prick.

For a moment, he just looked at him, and then at the king, waiting for him to interrupt, to say something, but Alfred just watched the road ahead, face still and calm. Blood was racing beneath Uthred’s skin now, the wrath suddenly blazing alive – and he had no idea where this rage was coming from, why this man was riling him like this. He gripped his horse’s reins tightly now, knuckles clenching white.

“I don’t know you,” and he couldn’t keep the frown off his face, his voice hard as flint now. He could feel his jaw wounding tighter with each breath.

“I am Cenric, son of Cynefrid.” the young man replied, and he sounded a little too haughty, his blade thick and heavy against the horse’s side, “Do you not know the answer to my question, Lord?”

“No, I know it,” Uthred scowled, and he had to stop himself from snapping at that man.

_Fucking arsehole._

He tried to calm down, to breathe in the cool air.

Alfred burned at his side.

“Yes, they use the river,” Uthred said, and turned away from the ealdorman, and back towards the trees, his shoulders too tight, “But they ride too, from the east. The woods are thicker after Haedde’s. Plenty of places to hide.”

Cenric hummed.

“But the river is the more direct route, is it not, from Lundene?”

Uthred gritted his teeth.

“Yes.”

“Then is it not more likely that the Danes would attack from the river, not the woods? Is it not their way?”

“No, the river is too exposed,” and Uthred turned back to the lord now, frustration writhing beneath his skin, “Forgive me, Lord, but I don’t understand. Dorset is far from here. What does any of this have to do with you?

The man scowled, his dark hair wavering in the wind, and as he opened his mouth to retort back, Alfred finally spoke, his voice breaking through the strain.

“Cenric is merely concerned about the well-being of all of Wessex, Uthred. As am I,” he said, and he spared another glance at Uthred, eyes cold and blue as the sea. Behind them, soldiers were shouting now – another wagon had gotten stuck in the mud, from the sounds of it. Alfred and his guards just carried on.

Uthred’s heart lurched in his chest.

“Yes, I’m sure he is,” he replied, and ignored the frown from the younger man. He didn’t really want to talk to him anymore. He didn’t like the look of him.

He didn’t like anything about him.

_Fucking child._

_Why the fuck is he here?_

_Why the hell is Alfred speaking up for him?_

_What the fuck-_

“The fact is, I’ve been thinking about building a burh here, Uthred,” Alfred said now, as Uthred tried to shake off his frustration, to clear his head and still his heart. He could feel Cenric’s eyes still on him, but he just turned away, back to the trees, to watch the shades and falling light. His shoulders still felt too tight.

“I agree, Lord,” he replied, and breathed out into the cold air, “As I’ve told you before. We need more men up here.”

“Yes, which is why it is time we built a burh,” Alfred said, a little condescendingly, “Though exactly where is still some matter of debate.”

Horses whinnied in the wind.

“And you want my opinion?” Uthred asked. 

Alfred’s voice was as cool as ever.

“You hold the river here, Uthred” he replied, “You’re the one who defends it. And in time, when the burh is built, you will be the one that holds it. There will be more men provided, of course, but if we are to maintain the peace in this region, then we will need a strong burh, at its most strategic location. Now, where would you suggest?”

And Uthred couldn’t help the flutter of warmth at that. There were too many thoughts inside of him now, too many damn emotions, dread, anxiety, frustration roiling – but Alfred was talking to him, consulting him, and it felt…good. He could feel Cenric’s eyes on him still, but something _pleased_ unfurled in his chest now, something gold.

“It would have to be Haedde’s, Lord,” Uthred said, and he nodded now up to the right, Alfred following his gaze; and there, through the trees, still following along their path, was the hill, the gentle slopes now starting to fall, to decline beyond the green. Up above, a jackdaw called, among the higher, more barren branches.

“It doesn’t look very steep,” Alfred noted, as he studied the hill from between the leaves.

“No, Lord,” Uthred replied, “But it’s the only hill for leagues, and when the Danes come from the east, at least we might be able to see-”

“Lord, that isn’t a good idea,” Cenric interrupted, and Uthred felt whatever warmth inside of him, that flicker, that second crack, like broken glass.

“No?” Alfred said, and turned to look fully at the ealdorman now. Uthred could feel his jaw clench, the madness tumbling through.

_Fucker._

Beneath him, his horse snorted, just a little, as if she felt his rage. A small, humble smile grace Cenric’s lips now as he bowed his head to Alfred, playing his part.

“No, Lord,” he said, and Uthred could barely stand the way he looked at Alfred, his eyes sincere, his handsome face calm and unassuming, like the breeze, “As I said before, the island back there is still the better choice. We know the Danes always travel by river. A burh there would be safe-”

“Did you not hear anything I said?” Uthred snapped, as the rage raced away, “The river is too exposed. The Danes don’t always come up the river here, not with my men watching from the banks.”

“And how many men do have, Lord Uthred? Can you cover all of the river, from here to Lundene?” and Cenric’s eyes were meeting Uthred’s now, his smile falling almost as quickly as it had come, his voice tight with frustration, “If a burh is a built there, we will able to watch the river completely, from all sides. It makes the most sense, to have the burh on the border-”

“And what about the Danes that come down from the north then? Or those who ride through the woods? There are villages east from here, beyond the hill. They cannot be seen from Sceaf’s.”

“Those are Mercian villages, Lord. They are to the lords of Mercia to protect.”

“Fuck the _lords_ -”

“And besides, we cannot build a burh in Mercian territory, Lord,” Cenric looked back to the king, and Alfred was still watching the ealdorman, his soft, dark hair trembling in the breeze, “Lord Uthred’s advise may seem sound, at first, but he fails to consider where we are. This land is Mercian. We cannot afford to insult them by building a fortress on their land.”

Uthred could feel the snarl tearing out of him.

“Alfred is the _king,_ ” and he knew he was acting irrationally now, and he had never lost his rage so quickly, so completely, so unreasonably, “If he wants a burh in Mercia, then he will build a burh-”

“That’s not how it works-”

“Well, that’s how it should-”

“Then clearly, Lord, you are not as versed in the matters of the land as you wish to be. Though I suppose it’s always hard for a heathen to understand such things.”

And Uthred was ready to kill the man.

Everything about him reeked of pride, of arrogance, and as he looked at Uthred with that harsh, smug face, he looked no different than all the other lords, then all the priests, the same disgust, the same disdain. Up above, the sun still sang high in the sky, its light flickering through the tangled branches – and Uthred could feel the wrath consume him entirely, like a black, roiling sea.

_Fuck._

He opened his mouth to snarl now, to let loose, and then Alfred was speaking again, his voice breaking through as ever, like a wave.

“That’s enough now,” he said, and he straightened his back even more and turned back to the muddy road, “Uthred, you may leave us. We will discuss your suggestion.”

And it was as if he had suddenly been dunked into ice-cold waves.

For a moment, he just looked at Alfred, at the soft, pale lines of his face, waiting for him to say something else, anything else – but he just stared ahead and rode on, Cenric by his side. He didn’t even bother to look at him now.

_Fuck._

Something howled within his chest.

_Of course._

Without another word, Uthred pulled back on his horse’s reins, almost instinctively, and he was falling behind, through the small herd of lords and priests. Beocca was passing him now, patting him briefly on the back, and then, just like that, the entourage was in front of him again, Alfred and his lords trudging on down the road as Uthred fell away, left in the cold.

He could hear Finan’s voice just behind him now, his friends coming up to join him again.

_Of fucking course._

Cenric turned back a little to look at him, over his shoulder, a small, conceited small on his face.

Uthred wanted to hit something.

What was even the point of that? What was the point of asking Uthred’s opinion, only to dismiss him so suddenly and then go back talking to that child? In front of him, Uthred could see Alfred talking to Cenric again, their voices lost amidst the clopping hooves, and Uthred couldn’t understand anything anymore.

Why was he here? What was the point of dragging him and his men all the way to Mercia? Was it going to be like this now? Was Alfred just going to listen to his advice for 2 seconds, then turn back to his lords?

_He used to listen to me._

_Didn’t he?_

_Even with Aethelred, even with young Odda, he always listened to me._

_Why would he let me argue with Cenric like that and then just fucking dismiss me, like a child?_

A flash of memory, among the green – the library, Alfred’s face, his eyes dark with hate.

_Nothing but ruins._

“Is everything alright, Lord?” Finan asked as he sidled up beside him again, his horse plodding through the dirt.

Uthred couldn’t understand what was going on inside of him anymore.

Grief called in the wind.

“Come on,” Uthred replied, and with his friends, he trudged along behind the king, his eyes turning back to the trees, to watch, to wait, to not think.

* * *

Uthred felt restless.

All around him, the crickets chirped into the cold, night air, the brook babbling like a chorus in the shifting dark, and Uthred could still feel it, after all those hours, that nameless dread, singing in his veins. It was pass midnight now, and the fire was burning a little low, embers flickering in the dark– but he was still there, somehow, beneath the stars, watching the shadows in the black.

Almost everyone was asleep already.

Except for Uthred, of course.

No, he wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight.

They had made camp hours ago, in the late afternoon; they were pass the slopes of Haedde’s now, beyond that gentle green, and now, they were here, in the depths of the woods, pale tents scattered among the dark, gloomy trees. Firelight still sputtered about the camp, torches alit in passing guards’ hands – but everything else was quiet now, horses and wagons teetered to trees, hulking shadows in the dark, as soldiers snored in their bedrolls, beneath the cold white stars. Up above, the skies were half-veiled, stars strewn between the black clouds, the moon lost amidst the wisps, and Uthred just leaned back against the tree trunk and watched the darkness between the trees.

It was all he could do, really. They had camped a little further from the others, their tents pitched near the shallow brook, the air damp and bitter as the earth – and Uthred hadn’t wanted to camp so near the spring, its song too loud, its frogs still croaking amidst the reeds. The trees were rustling gently in the breeze, and he knew that if any intruder, any bandit came tonight, their steps would be lost in all this sound, their approach hidden until the very end. This was an awful spot to guard, to keep watch – but Uthred had had no choice. Everywhere else was just too far away from Alfred’s tent.

_And I have to be close._

_In case._

_Just in case._

Something was still off.

He couldn’t shake this. It was still there, the unease, the dread, plucking away in his gut, fingers crawling at the back of his neck. Before him, the shadows whispered among the trees – and Uthred couldn’t stop thinking that there was more to all of it, that something was out there, watching, waiting, holding its breath before the plunge. He knew he was being paranoid, that the others, Finan, Sithric, they were snoring, but he couldn’t sleep, not like this, not when his skin crawled.

His blade sat heavy upon his lap, unsheathed and cold, silver light.

He had to be careful.

He had to be ready.

The cold sank deep into his bones.

Alfred was too exposed.

Even now, in the flickering dark, he could see Alfred’s tent, in the middle of the camp, the large white sheets glowing pale among the scattered torches, and it was all too visible, the guards too little. He could see two guards now, standing before the tent’s entrance, but these weren’t Roman walls. Out here, in the wild, anything could reach out from the dark – and how could Uthred protect him then? How could he keep him safe, in all this rustling black?

The royal tent was dark now, like all the others, lifeless, cold, and a part of him, some wild, dark thing, just wanted to sit out there, just outside the tent, to guard as Alfred slept, to watch and shield and _protect-_

_Like a dog._

_A fucking watch dog._

Shame burned beneath his skin.

_What am I doing?_

_He is nothing to me._

_Why can’t I just fucking sleep?_

He watched the shadows among the trees, and let that nameless fear just sit there, in his gut.

_He is nothing to me._

A rustle, suddenly, to the right – and when Uthred snapped his head around, away from the woods, it was Thyra, walking quietly up to him.

“Brother,” she greeted, as she approached, in her gentle way. Her smile was soft and sleepy, dreamy in the firelight.

He couldn’t help but smile back.

As the breeze trilled through the leaves, Thyra came up to the fire, and sat across from Uthred, on the leaf-strewn ground. She and Beocca had camped just beside them, in their own tent, and they had retired to bed hours ago – but now she was here, wrapped in a thousand blankets, smiling wanly in the half-light. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, and Uthred wondered what had woke her, if she felt it too.

“You’re up late,” he remarked, and felt the warmth of her smile bloom in his heart, “Did Beocca wake you? Is he snoring again?”

His sister chuckled and began to prod the low-burning embers with a stray stick, the fire spitting in the dark.

“Hush now,” she replied, as the firelight wavered about her face, “I saw the light. I knew you would be awake.”

Crickets sung by his feet, and Uthred looked down to his blade.

“Well, now you can stay awake with me,” he said, and reached into his pocket to pull out his whetstone, the rock smooth and heavy in his hand, “You could tell me stories.”

“Just like when we were children?” Thyra smiled.

“You were always the best at it.”

“No, Grandfather was the best,” she replied, “You couldn’t sleep for days after he first told you about Fenrir.”

“I was twelve!” Uthred laughed, a little too loudly, and Thyra shushed him as she grinned, her head swiveling about to see if they had woken anyone else. The camp was silent all around them, the brook splashing along – and as they sat there, smiling at each other, it almost felt like they were home again, that they were children, in the wooden hall, grinning cheekily at each other over the fire as their mother turned the spit, the smell of roasted meat thick in the smoky air.

For a moment, for just a second, Uthred could actually feel the heat of it, of his home, the pelt snug around his shoulders, the wooden walls dark and warm, draping furs – and there was his father, Ragnar, chewing at a bone, warm eyes watching as younger Ragnar ruffled Uthred’s hair, his hand large and coarse upon his head. Brida was there too, of course, quiet and warm by his side, and there was Ravn, watching him, watching with sightless, milky eyes, seeing everything, seeing all of him-

And the warmth, the flames just burned within his veins.

Grief stirred within his heart, like an old song. 

_Gods._

It was just a memory, a moment lost forever in time – but as he sat there, in the dark camp, he watched his sister’s face and knew she saw it too, felt it too, a whisper, a dream of all they had lost.

The fire crackled in the night, embers dancing up to the stars.

“Do you think they would be proud of us?” Uthred asked, his voice quiet now. He turned back to his sword and began to run the whetstone against its silver edge, the metal scraping faintly in his lap.

“How do you mean?” Thyra asked, as she snuggled further into her blankets. Her face was thoughtful now, soft and wistful.

“Of where we are,” Uthred replied, trees rustling in the wind, “Of who we have become.”

The amber stone burned aflame upon the sword’s pommel.

Frogs croaked a new song, into the night air.

“Mother would have hated Beocca,” Thyra was grinning again, a little impishly, “She would have cursed me for marrying a Christian.”

He could feel the smile now, twitching at his lips.

“A Christian _priest_.”

Her smile just widened.

“She would have banished me.”

“Yes, but only for a month.”

And that was a lie, of course, a blatant lie – but it made them grin anyway, in the firelight. Uthred knew that it would have been worse than that, that if they had lived, if his family were alive, right now, then-

_Well._

_Beocca would be dead._

_Father would have killed him._

_They would have never allowed her to marry him._

And Uthred wondered, for a moment, if Thyra would have still been happy, in a life, a world, without the priest.

_And why wouldn’t she have been? She would have married Leif, as planned. She would have been a mother, by now._

_She would never have been taken._

He watched the firelight dance upon her face, her pale eyes watching him so kindly, so contentedly.

_She could have been happy, even without Beocca._

_We could have all been happy._

He thought of Alfred, asleep in his tent, his dark hair falling gently onto his face.

_I would have never met him._

Something panged in his chest, something sharp and raw.

_Fuck._

Thyra’s voice was quiet now.

“They would have been proud of you though,” she said, so gently, her face pale and calm as the moon in the night. Uthred felt something _ache_ deep within his chest.

“And what exactly would they be proud of, Thyra?” he asked, and he could feel it now, the pain starting to unfurl, the grief awakening, like the tides of the sea, “Look where-”

A scream cut through the air.

Uthred froze.

For a moment, they just sat there, staring at each other, confused, time itself taking a breath-

And then, just like that, the world exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, ok, so I'm reallyyy sorry about this chapter. There were parts of it I really didn't like, but I just wanted to get this out before we really jump into the plot. I know I promised more Alfred, but since I am chaotic mess, who makes shit up on the go....I'm trying to slow burn it guys. 
> 
> But we are definitely getting more into the plot from the next chapter. Shits about to happen for Uthred and Alfred, and I am really excited to write it! But yes, I am really sorry about the lack of Alfred/Uthred but its coming, I promise!
> 
> Also, side note: I really love Thyra? I wanted to explore the conversation between her and Uthred more, but felt like we needed to move on to the plot? But yeah, I absolutely love her character. 
> 
> One more fun fact: The real Alfred the Great did indeed build a burh on Sceaf's Isle, or modern day Sashes Island, just outside Coccham (Cookham). I'm guessing Bernard Cornwell was referring to that in his books. Haedde's Cliff is also a real place, just across the island. It's modern name is Hedsor Hill, and as far as I can find, no burh was ever built there. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for your comments and kudos! See you soon!


	4. The Fight

Uthred could feel the rage burn beneath his skin.

_Of course._

_Of fucking course._

He _knew_ this was going to happen. 

“Uthred!” his sister screamed, and the blade was on him now, the steel cutting through the air.

With a yell, he crashed his sword against the Dane’s, the giant roaring red. Saliva spat from the man’s lips, the metal clashing – and Uthred twisted away, freeing his blade. Heart pounding, he dipped his sword and slashed it across the open chest. Bright blood sprayed into the wind, as the man screamed. He tried to move, to counter, but Uthred just slashed him again, ripping through his neck. Blood spattered onto his face, tendons snapping – and then he was dead, crashing to the ground.

Fire seared within his veins, and Uthred could taste it now, the blood in the air.

His heart thundered in his chest, like a roaring beast.

_I need to get to Alfred._

All around him, the camp was in chaos, the battle surging. Men were storming out of the woods, from the east, Danes, shadows, roaring and howling, blades bloody in the air. Soldiers stumbled awake – and the torches were flying now, fires burning through the tents, men screaming as metal clashed, as swords gored through their chests. Horses fled between the flames, screeching into the cold, and Uthred could see the priests running, the Danes hacking and slashing, cleaving to the bone. The air smelled like blood now, like black ash, like fear - and all Uthred could think about Alfred.

He needed to get to Alfred.

He needed to find him.

_Fuck. Fuck._

_Fuckfuckfuck-_

A Dane rushed towards him, from the side – and Finan parried him away, swords clanging in the air. He hacked him with a howl, steel burying into flesh.

“What the _fuck_ is this?!” the Irishman yelled. His face was twisted into a snarl, blood on his brow.

An arrow whizzed past Uthred’s head, and he darted back, to the side.

“We need to get to Alfred!” he shouted back, above the raging din. His blade burned in his hand, blood racing wild. Arrows hissed through the air again, cutting towards them – and Uthred threw his weight away behind the tent’s tarp. His eyes darted back to his sister now – and she and Beocca were shielded too, at the back, behind the tent’s edge. Sithric was standing by them, the blade gleaming, eyes dark.

“What?!” Finan yelled, as he ducked away from the arrows, behind the other tent. He yanked Osferth to his side, the monk clutching at his cross with his free hand. 

_Fuck, fuck, I need to find him-_

Voices wept into the night, hoarse screams and terrified cries. Uthred peered around the edge – and he could see them now, two archers armed, bows aimed at them as the battle roared. Behind them, priests shrieked as a group of Danes hacked them to the ground, blood spattering brimstone-red against the pale white tents. Fire seethed into the air, and he could just about see the king’s tent, there, near the growing flames, amidst the black-steel storm-

And arrows flew by them again. They were fucking cornered.

_Fuck. Fuck this, fuck -where is he? Is Steapa with him? How I supposed to get him, fuck, fuck, I need to think-_

“Lord, we need to fall back!” Finan yelled, his two blades bloody at his side. Panic was choking down Uthred’s throat now, blood roaring in his ears. He _had_ to find him, to run, to fight – but the archers were still there, pinning them down as the Danes behind them slaughtered the priests, tearing them to bloody bits.

Uthred knew that they were next. There were at least 6 of them there, behind the archers, in their way. It was only a matter of time before they were done with the priests before they turned their blades on them. They were trapped here.

Axes shattered into shields, bones crunching and cracking amidst the screams. Beocca’s arms wrapped around Thyra, their faces pale and terrified in the dark.

_I need to get them out of here._

He peered around the edge again, to the bloody, burning chaos, to Alfred’s white tent. He couldn’t see the king at all. He didn’t know where he was.

_Fuck, is he even wearing an armour?_

_No, of course not. He was asleep. He wouldn’t have slept in his armour like the rest of us. He’s probably just in his fucking nightclothes._

Terror seized through his chest.

_Why didn’t he just wear a fucking mail to bed? Idiot. Arrogant idiot. I knew this would happen, I knew it, what the fuck am I panicking for? He knows how to fight, of course, he does, he can protect himself, and Steapa, the guards, he’s fine, he’s safe, he doesn’t have any fucking armour-_

“Lord are you listening to me?” and Uthred knew he was spiralling now, and he had to breathe, he had to focus. His eyes were beginning to sting from the ash, the air rushing black as he breathed.

_Focus, fuck. Just fucking focus._

_I cannot fight like this._

“Uthred!” Finan shouted again, eyes wide. Uthred clenched his jaw.

“We have to get Alfred,” he snapped, as the arrows flew once more, tearing between the tents. He breathed in the dark, coppery air, and calmed his mind, the beast howling in his chest.

_I have to focus._

“Is that a joke?!” Finan gaped.

“Lord, there’s too many of them,” Sithric said, as he shuffled closer, “We can’t fight them.”

“We don't have to fight them all,” Uthred bit back, “Alfred’s tent is close. We’ll rush through. Keep moving. Follow the tracks and find the king.”

Finan shook his head, brow furrowed.

“Steapa would have gotten them out already,” he panted, as wails tore through the air.

“Or they could be cornered,” Beocca snarled, frantic, furious now, “We can’t just leave him. He’s the king!” His arms tightened around Thyra as he kept looking over his shoulder, towards the dark woods.

“Well, then what the hell do you suggest then, Father?” Finan snapped back, Osferth breathless at his side, “There’s too fucking many of them! We’ll be cut down, before we make it through.”

“And if you don’t find Alfred, they will kill him. You need to do something, he _cannot_ die-”

“We don’t even have our shields-”

“Enough,” Uthred barked, and he clenched the sword in his hand, “Shut up. We don’t have time for this.”

“Then let’s fall back,” Finan replied, “We need-”

“ _No_ ,” and Uthred gritted his teeth, rage cutting like black steel, “We’re not leaving him.”

Finan cursed.

_I need to find him._

“Uthred, what do we do?” Beocca asked.

With a breath, Uthred peeked out again to the Danes. They were almost done with the priests, hacking at the last, screaming man. Bloodied snarls were turning to their tents now, cautious, ready, barking at each other as they began to advance. Corpses laid scattered among their feet, torn limbs and bloody entrails – and behind the nearing Danes, more fought on, clashing metal, tossing flames. Uthred had to get his men through this group first, with their archers – but they didn’t even have their shields on them. Belatedly, he realized that his men were barely equipped, with only their nearest weapon and unbuckled leathers.

Their shields and gear were in the tents, but if they moved now, the arrows would kill them.

_Fuck, how am I supposed to get to him?_

His heart thrashed against his ribs, like a raging, wilding beast.

_Focus, focus. I need to find him._

He swallowed down the clawing fear.

_I need to find him._

“Sithric, get them out of here,” he ordered, nodding back at Thyra and Beocca, “Get them back to Coccham. We’ll meet you there.” He couldn’t let the fear show, he had to focus. 

_I need to find him._

“No, wait, what about Alfred?” Beocca hissed back at him, “You can’t just leave-”

“I told you I will get him,” Uthred snapped, and he didn’t have time for this, they needed to move, “But you both can’t stay here. You need to run.”

“And Alfred?” Beocca repeated, rattling with panic, “You will get him? You will save him?”

Arrows ripped through the ash. Danes hollered with each step.

“Lord, they’re coming,” Finan yelled, body crouched, ready to fight.

“Uthred, promise me,” Beocca pled, and in the whipping firelight, in the storm of ash, the priest looked scared and desperate beyond compare, “He cannot die, do you hear me? Alfred _cannot_ die.”

Uthred looked at Thyra’s face, eyes as steel in the blaze.

_Never. Never._

_He cannot die._

“Go,” he replied, as the fire raged, “I will find him.”

Beocca met his eyes.

He said no more.

Without another word, Sithric led them away, scampering down into the brook and slipping away into the trees. Uthred caught a glimpse of Thyra and Beocca’s faces as they turned back for one last look – and then they were gone, swallowed by the dark.

_By the gods, just stay safe._

Arrows ripped through the tent, and Uthred knew that they only had seconds now.

They _needed_ to move.

_Fuck, I need to find him._

“We go through,” he said, as the blood roared, “I’ll distract the archers. Finan, take the flank and cut them down.” The Danes were all moving now, moments away from them. Axes raised bloody into the night.

“Can’t we go around?!” Osferth panted, eyes blown wide.

“No, we don’t have time,” Uthred barked, and he knew it was wrong, it was _stupid_ – but what else was he supposed to do? He had to find him. _Now_. Everything inside of him screamed to move, to leap and run straight through, arrows be damned, and he wasn’t thinking clearly, he was going to get his men killed-

But Alfred, Alfred, he had to find him.

_Fuck, fuck,_

_fuckfuckfuck-_

“Lord,” Finan began – and then there it was.

A chance.

Soldiers were rushing now, from the left, crashing against the Danes in front of them. There was only a few of them, bloodied and frenzied, more Danes behind them, the battle spilling over – but it was enough. 

For a few seconds, for just a few, the men in front of them were distracted, arrows flying at the soldiers, axes hewing into throats. 

But it was enough.

By gods, it was enough.

“Now!” Uthred cried, and they charged out from the tents, into the bloody fray. Arrows turned – but he leapt across the mud, desperate, furious, blade ripping black. He lunged at the nearest archer before he could blink, and gored him through the gut, steel tearing through flesh. Beside him, Finan ripped out a howl as he slashed the other bowmen through, red-black splattering into the air. Uthred wrenched out his bloody blade, the archer yowling as he shoved him away – and then they were running, through the flames.

They couldn’t stop now.

_Fuck, fuck where are you?_

Danes charged from all sides, and all Uthred could do was run and hack and slash, his sword burning through flesh, through the ash. A shield battered against his side, wood cracking as an axe arched over his head – and he ducked away, shoving back from the heaving Dane. Arrows shrilled through the dark, and he parried away another blade, the metal clanging through his bones. He slammed his fist against faceless men, and slashed his sword through leather and mail, through bloody flesh, bones cracking away beneath his hands.

It was madness. He didn’t know who he was attacking, who he was fighting. He was just running now, pushing and slashing, his feet slipping in the mud, the ground wet and foul with blood and guts. Osferth was just behind him, in his shadow, ducking and cutting, still so unsure– but Finan stormed at his side, face marked with blood, teeth sharp as he shielded Uthred from the left, his blades fleeting ice.

They were in the middle of it now, Danes and soldiers all around, ripping steel – but Uthred couldn’t stop to fight them all. He had to keep running, to shove and stab and focus on the tent.

On finding him.

_Gods, where is he?_

An axe gashed against his shoulder, tearing through the leather armour. Pain flared through his arm as he twisted back and slit his blade through black furs, the Dane howling red as the metal ripped through his guts. An arrow whipped by his head, and Uthred thrust his steel up through a man’s throat -

And they were in the fires now, the flames thrashing above their heads, the air bitter and foul with blood and death. Heat scorched against his side, ash stinging in his eyes.

Alfred’s tent was right ahead.

_Alfred._

With one last push, Uthred and his men fought their way through the battle, stumbling over corpses, bashing against Danes, steel biting, blood racing. Uthred could barely see anything from between the clashing steel, the lashing flames – and then, there were archers, Saxon archers, flying arrows above their heads.

There were at least 4 of them now, standing in a half-circle, shooting arrows into the battle. As Uthred and his men emerged, they aimed at them too, faces like steel.

_Fuck, wait-_

And then, in a blink of an eye, Steapa was there, howling at the men, and grabbing Uthred by the arm.

“Let him through!” the large man yelled and he pulled Uthred through the rank, and out from the burning roar. Finan and Osferth clambered after him, darting past the archers, and Uthred realized that they were at Alfred’s tent now, the bowmen barely holding back the battle from it. He could see other soldiers too, about the tent, keeping back the howling crash-

And there was Alfred.

Alfred was here.

_Oh, thank fuck._

Relief exploded in his chest, like a sweeping, rushing gale.

_He’s alive._

The king was standing in front of the tent with his wife and son, in the protected arc. He was in his nightclothes, just as Uthred feared, a figure of slender grey in the clashing black – but there was nothing of his usual calm, his hands grasping around Aeslwith’s hands as he pleaded something to her, their voices lost in the clash. His back was still to Uthred, but Edward had spotted him already, his pale face etched with terror and dirt as he hid behind his mother.

Uthred’s legs moved without thought, his only goal the king.

_Gods, he’s alive._

“Lord,” he panted, as he neared, blood still dripping from his blade. Steapa stayed nearby, sword unsheathed, shouting at the soldiers and archers to keep the Danes back. Uthred could feel the heat from the flames blistering against his skin now, the fire raging closer and closer.

Alfred turned at his voice, and his face was dappled with black ash, his hair ruffled just a bit.

“Uthred,” he replied, his eyes wide and dark in the blazing orange light. He was panting, chest heaving, and Uthred’s eyes darted all about him, from his face to his feet, searching for any blood, any injuries. Alfred looked unharmed, he was safe – but they couldn’t stay here. He had to get him out.

“Lord, we need to move,” Uthred breathed, terror choking down his throat. For a moment, he thought Alfred’s eyes raked over him too, quick as a blade – but Aelswith was blubbering now, tears streaking down her face.

“They cannot take my child!” she screamed, distressed, as Edward hid behind her back, “You cannot, Lord, we cannot, we-”

“Aeslwith, Aelswith please,” Alfred begged, and Uthred could hear the rush in his voice, “You have to calm yourself. You have to keep him safe.”

“Lord, we don’t have time for this,” Uthred said, as he half-turned back to the roar. The archers were firing their arrows still, emptying their quivers. Soldiers were slashing at the Danes that managed to crash through – but there wasn’t enough of them, men falling to the ground as blood arched into the air. The line was breaking, constantly breaking, and Uthred had no idea how they had managed to keep the tent protected for so long.

_Fuck, I need to get him out of here._

Osferth hacked at an incoming Dane, bones cracking in the ash. Uthred’s heart slammed down to his gut.

“Lord!” he barked, and Alfred snapped his head back to him, Aeslwith sobbing uncontrollably.

“There has to be a way out of here,” the king said, between breaths, his hands still holding back his wife. His face was drawn tight, and everything inside of Uthred wanted to _grab_ him, to shield him, to get him out. His body thrummed with panic, and he had to focus, he had to think.

_Fuck, they’re going to kill him. Fuck, fuckfuckfuck-_

“Lord, its surrounded on all sides!” Finan yelled, as he ran back to him, brow glistening red – and Uthred realized that he had gone all around the tent, to find a way out, “We’ll need to fight our way through.”

“Do you have a shield?” Uthred turned back to Alfred, “Do you have a sword?”

“No,” he rasped, “I don’t. Uthred, my son-”

“Will be safe, but we need-”

And then, with a roar, the rank broke, like a crashing wave. Danes surged through the archers, metal slashing, bones snapping. Men roared and screamed, gnashing teeth – and they were rushing now, through the ash, clanging against Uthred’s steel.

Panic surged through his veins. He threw himself in front of Alfred, and hacked at everything in front of him. Blood spattered into his mouth – and he couldn’t control it anymore. Madness consumed him, like a blaze.

_Not Alfred._

He was _furious,_ he was feral, all sense, all thought fleeing away as he slashed and stabbed, the blood searing through his veins. Alfred pressed against his back, trapped against the tent, shielding his family– and Uthred knew in that moment, as he always did, in all those moments, that he was never going to let them touch this man.

He was going to kill them all, every single Dane. He was going to raze this earth, if it meant that Alfred could be safe.

_I am going to burn them all._

Fire scorched the world apart.

_They will never have him._

“Steapa!” Aeslwith screamed, as a blade lanced against Uthred’s side, pain ripping raw. He didn’t have time to feel it. He just clashed away, slashing through flesh – and Steapa had Aelswith and Edward now, a hand gripped tight around the boy’s arm. The large man was spattered with gore, but there were guards with him too, soldiers pushing in one last fight. They were trying to pull Alfred and his family out, shields cracking beneath blades -

But the Danes pushed through, and as the world tumbled around them, everything fell to chaos, to blood and flames. Uthred reached back and grabbed Alfred – and the blades were pushing them out now, away from the tent, away from Aelswith and Edward.

“No, stop!” Alfred yelled, but Uthred yanked him back as an axe cleaved through the air. Finan ripped the Dane apart, but more clashed back, their feet slipping as they fell into the gore.

Everything was burning now. Everything was screaming.

The battle surged and pushed them out to sea, like a crashing wave.

_Fuckfuckfuck-_

It was just the four of them now.

Uthred shoved Alfred behind his back, as the battle swallowed them whole again. Finan and Osferth were still with him, flanking the king’s sides, but the blades were gashing, and they were all stumbling back, towards the ripping flames. Steapa yelled over the blades, still pressed against the king’s tent - but he was suddenly so far away, the battle swelling between them like a storm.

“No, no, I’m not leaving them!” Alfred cried, pushing back, but it was too late. The king’s tent was getting smaller and smaller, fading into ash and smoke. Uthred thought he could still see Aelswith’s face, screaming tears, but the fire was blistering against his skin now, and they were way too close to the flames. They had to keep moving. They had to get out.

“Don’t stop!” Uthred roared, and he ripped his blade through open flesh. There was no point going back to the tent. There was no way they were going to make it back.

He had to get Alfred _out_.

“Uthred, no, no, we have to go back!” Alfred shoved, clamouring –but they were just rushing now, clashing through, the three of them encircling the king as they grappled through the blood and flames. Everything was madness. Everything was aflame.

_They will never have him._

Uthred gored his blade through a man’s face, blood burning in his veins, rage and fear churning red.

_They will never have him._

“Lord, this way!” Finan cried, as Osferth leapt away from a gashing axe. Ash choked down Uthred’s throat, his feet slipping through the blood.

_They will never have him._

An axe gashed down his arm as he blocked it away from Alfred, a cry spilling from his lips. His heart screamed again and again, reaching to the gods.

_You don’t get to have him._

They burst through the flames, through the churning blades, and into the black green woods. 

They didn’t even stop to breathe.

They just ran, Alfred between them, clashing away the straggling Danes, smoke burning them blind. Uthred didn’t know where there were going – he just needed to get him out, to get him as far away from the blood as he could.

Alfred could barely keep up with them, but Uthred shoved him through.

They ran and ran and ran.

Screams echoed through the black.

It felt like hours, but finally, _finally,_ they were far enough. With a breath, Uthred raised his hand to signal a stop, and Finan and Osferth threaded down to a light run, capering through the trees. Alfred was panting, quiet now, but he let them lead him through the woods, into a small, dark glade. A pond sat in the middle of the shrouded clearing, like a mirror of silent black.

“We’ll stop here,” Uthred said, his lungs burning ash. With a nod, Finan quickly darted around the glade, checking through the trees, making sure it was safe. Osferth followed his lead, panting sharp, and within seconds, they were back.

“We shouldn’t stay long,” Finan said, voice low, rough with ash. His blades were still swinging by his side, black with blood.

Uthred knew he was right. For a moment, as they took their breath in the dark, panting through the lingering smoke, he turned back around - and the battle was still raging there, in the distance. They were quite far from it now, but the orange glow of the blaze still burned through the trees. He could still hear the screams, the crashing of steel.

No, they couldn’t stay here. It was still too damn close.

_Coccham. I have to get him to Coccham._

Rage still burned through his blood, the madness roaring black.

_Focus, now. Focus. Get him to Coccham._

“Are you hurt?” Uthred asked, as he turned to Alfred, sweat dripping down his back. The king was leaning against the nearest tree, still out of breath – but his eyes met Uthred’s now, flashing bright blue.

“I’m fine,” he rumbled, and his voice was too gruff, choked with smoke. His face was smudged with dirt and ash – and Uthred’s eyes quickly flitted all about him, searching through the dark. His robes were completely filthy now, but he looked fine, he looked –

There was a spatter of blood on his right hip, almost black against the grey. Uthred’s heart leapt into his mouth.

_Fuck, no, nonono-_

Without a thought, he grabbed Alfred’s arm, to pull him closer, to get a better look – but the king just shoved him off, eyes darting away.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, and there was something cold in his voice now, something like steel. With a deep breath, he pushed off the tree and trudged to the pond. He knelt down carefully, and dipped his grimy hands into the water, tiny waves rippling out across the black.

Uthred’s heart dropped, to his gut.

_What did I do?_

Blood sludged down his arm, warm as the smoke still trailing through the air. Claws twisted through his chest, as Alfred cupped his hands in the water and brought them up to drink.

_Is he hurt?_

Silence sang throughout the glade, the air suddenly like black ice.

“Lord, we have to go,” Finan murmured, “They’re going to come looking for him.”

“But where are we?” Osferth replied, almost whispering too, blood dark upon his face, “I don’t know which direction we ran. Where do we go?” The monk’s eyes flitted about the glade, watching every tree, every shade. He avoided looking at Alfred though, his feet shuffling nervously.

Uthred watched as Alfred dipped his hands into the pond again, shoulders stiff and tense. Ice gnawed into skin.

“That’s fine, we can figure it out,” Finan coughed, and he turned his eyes up to the trees now, “We just need to find some open sky, get out from this smoke. Once we find the stars, we can figure it out.”

“And then, we head to Coccham? Isn’t that too far?” Osferth asked.

“There’s no other choice, monk. That’s where the others will be. We need to get behind walls.”

And Uthred should have said something then, agreed, come up with a plan. Finan was right, once again. They had to get to Coccham, they had to _move_ –

But Alfred’s hands were trembling now, ever so slightly. Ripples creased out across the black as he grasped his hands together, and began to scrub them in the water, moving fastidiously. His face was half-hidden in the dark.

_He just shocked. He isn’t as used to battle._

Ash burned in Uthred’s throat, fiery, brimstone claws. Alfred washed his hands without a word, the silence like frost, like black cold steel.

_Gods, is he hurt? Did he get hurt?_

Finan said something else, but Uthred wasn’t listening anymore. He took a step towards Alfred, heart panging.

“Lord, are hurt?” he asked again, breath tight in his chest. He reached out a hand to touch his shoulder –

And then, Alfred was on his feet, spinning towards him.

“You left my son,” he growled, and he was _furious_ , more than furious, every inch of him suddenly searing with ice cold rage.

“What?” Uthred froze, his mind drawing blank.

Screams tore through the night.

“I _told_ you,” Alfred snarled, and his blue eyes blazed, seething ice, his hands clenching by his side, “I told you to stop. I told you to go back.” His voice was suddenly so dark, low and harsh – and Uthred could feel his heart pounding against his chest, the king’s rage cold and black.

Blue eyes burned into the dark, and Alfred moved towards him now, slow and furious, jaw wound tight.

_Fuck._

“Lord-”

“He is only 12, Uthred, he cannot fight!” Alfred hissed, “I told you to go back. We have to go back-”

“Lord, Steapa had him,” Uthred snapped, and they didn’t have time for this, but there was something desperate and manic in Alfred’s eyes now, his hands clasping together in front of him, “Steapa will keep them safe.”

“And how are we to know that?” Alfred spat, shoulders shuddering, “You left them there. You left my family. We have no idea if they made it out. If they’re dead-”

“What did you want me to do?!” And Uthred was yelling again, all the adrenaline, the frustration, the panic and worry surging through him, burning red, “We _had_ to get you out. You’re the king-”

“Edward is the aethling! You have to go back for him!”

“And what? What are you going to do, wait here in the dark? No, they’re going to come after you, Lord. You’re the one they want.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Of course we do,” Uthred bit, and Alfred’s hands trembled again, fingers digging into flesh, jaw clenching tight, “Why else would they attack with such numbers? They knew you were here. I _knew_ this would happen-”

“Oh, you knew, did you-”

“You didn’t even bring enough-”

“Lord!” Finan yelled – but it was too late.

The trees erupted all around them, and the Danes crashed into the glade.

Uthred didn’t even have time to think. He flung himself in front of Alfred, and clashed his sword against a swinging axe. Roars tore through the night, men charging on horses, like a storm –

And then, before he could take another breath, a shield smashed into his face.

Pain shattered red-black. His vision went dark, and he crashed to the earth.

_No, no no-_

Hooves pounded in his ears, the pain screaming, clawing through his head.

_Alfred, Alfred-_

He could barely open his eyes, the world a foggy swirl of black and red. Blood rushed down his throat.

_No, not like this. Not yet-_

Voices roared, rushing gale. Hands grappled at his chest.

_Alfred._

_No._

_Alfred, wait._

Pain consumed him entirely. Hooves thundered into black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you so much for all your nice comments, and the kudos!
> 
> I hoped you enjoyed this one, just a lot of action and everyone just having a really bad night. It's a little shorter than usual, but it is really fun to write Uthred battle scenes - he's so smart, but also so dumb? He's not really using his head in this one, because he's a reckless idiot, who is panicking about Alfred. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading guys! I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible.


	5. The Cage

Everything hurt. Everything.

His head felt as if it had been smashed to bits.

Pain seared through his veins.

_Fuck._

He was going to be sick.

All around him, the world started to bleed back into focus – and for a moment, all Uthred could do was ebb between worlds, between the black and the grey, the voices and the wind. He could feel the sharp bite of rain now, through the pain, cold water soaking through his clothes. Metal stung against his skin, harsh, freezing fangs.

A body pressed against his side, warm in the ice.

Uthred opened his eyes.

He was in a cage.

Bodies jostled as the wagon rolled, cramped around him in the cage like herds of trapped beasts. Black metal bars rose up all around them, and Uthred could see the sky above, through the black lines, grey, heavy clouds weeping onto him, shrouding the sun. Beneath him, the wagon sloshed, each jolt a stab of pain through his veins. Trees trudged past in the downcast shade – and as he blinked through his pain, through the rain, the grey became clearer, horses slogging by the cage, Danes grumbling as it poured. The world was filled with the sounds of clopping hooves, of cold, pattering rain.

Ice and agony lanced through his skin, a shiver wracking down his back. His head swam.

“Lord?” a voice said, and Uthred bit through the pain and turned to the men around him in the cage, to the sullen, bloodied faces.

_Fuck, I’m going to be sick._

It had been Finan who spoke, who sat beside him now, pressed against his left side. They were at the back of the cage, surrounded by men, pushed back against metal bars– and Finan still burned warm, his face marked with dirt and blood, his hair wet with rain. Brown eyes watched him, bright with worry, and Uthred could feel the bile burn at the back of his throat.

“Lord?” Osferth called, above the plodding hooves. Uthred could see him now too, on Finan’s other side, wet and weary, crumpled up.

Nausea swirled through his head. Rain stung like ice. 

“Uthred,” Alfred said, and –

_Fuck. Fuck._

He was suddenly very awake.

With a jolt, he snapped his head around, and Alfred was sitting right in front of him, pressed against the cage’s side, scowling in the rain. Dark hair dripped down the sides of his face, and Uthred could feel the absolute _relief_ just crash through his veins.

_Fuck._

_Thank the gods._

_He’s alive._

Alfred was _alive._

Memories flooded, above the pain. A flash of steel, shattering shields – but Alfred was here now, brow slightly pinched, his blue eyes watching him, cold and blank. He was huddled against the cage, shaking slightly with the wagon, his knees folded to his chest, his skin damp with rain. Men were pressed against his back, quiet and bound, some weeping– and Alfred just looked so small among them, cold and miserable, his grey robes half-soaked, clinging to his skin.

Dirt and blood were smeared all about his robes, but Alfred didn’t look like he was in pain. His lips were tight, his jaw clenched. His hands were bound together with rope, over his knees.

The wagon rattled down the path, sloshing wet. Uthred’s head throbbed.

_Thank the fucking gods._

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his heart thundering.

_Alfred’s safe._

Except, of course, he wasn’t.

“Where are we?” Uthred croaked, and his voice felt like sand, the bile crackling like cinders down his throat. He tried to move his body now, to feel his legs – but everything still hurt, his skin stretched tight beneath his sopping clothes. Pain rippled down his right arm.

Alfred watched him silently, face blank, unreadable.

Finan spoke again, voice hoarse and low.

“East,” he simply said, “Uthred, are you alright?” He shuffled even closer, pushing against his side, ducking to see his eyes– and pain flared through Uthred’s hip, a rip of bloody red. He flinched, a groan spilling out.

“Sorry, sorry,” Finan winced, shrinking back. Uthred bit his tongue.

He knew that pain, that splitting ache.

_The blade that caught me through the side._

He remembered the slash of red, as he tore Alfred away from the smoldering flames. He hadn’t felt any of the wounds before, not in the thick of battle – but now, as the icy rain bit into his skin, he could feel the blood, warm and sticky, caked down his side. Leather gnawed into the wound.

“How bad does it hurt?” Finan asked, almost light-heartedly.

“Guess,” Uthred replied, as the pain flared and fell, like tearing, black waves.

_Fuck._

_This is bad._

He had to check the wound. He had to check everything, to see what else was hurt – he couldn’t afford to bleed out now, to fall back into the black. He had to focus, they were in a _cage –_ but as it burned and burned, he could only slump back against the cage’s side, his head spinning grey.

“What happened?” he rasped, and he let his eyes fall back on the king, his thoughts an endless mess. Horses whinnied in the rain.

“You were hit,” Alfred replied, voice cool and calm. He turned his gaze away now, to the wet, pelting grey beyond the iron cage.

“You took a shield to the face, Lord,” Finan explained, shrugging his crushed shoulders, “It was pretty much over after that.”

“We tried to fight,” Osferth said, his voice barely heard over the creaking wagon, “I swear it, Lord, but -”

“But there were too many of them,” Finan finished, “Once you were down, they overtook us. We tried to run, get the king out, but, well.” He raised his hands slightly then, and for the first time, Uthred realized that Finan was bound too, ropes knotted around his wrists, hands resting on damp knees. He looked down at his own hands, and –

_Of course._

He was tied up, ropes cutting into his wrists. He could barely feel the thing.

_Great._

As he stared down at his hands, he realized that the sleeve of his right arm was soaked with blood too, a grey cloth wrapped around an aching wound tearing through his forearm.

_Fucking great._

He lolled his head back against the iron cage, and breathed in the cold, damp air.

For a moment, they were silent. As the rain chimed against the metal bars, as the pain arched across his skin, Uthred took another breath and tried to collect his thoughts, to push through the ache, to find his words. He could feel Finan and Osferth still watching him, waiting, but Alfred just gazed away, the grey light trembling across his marble-like face. All around him, the captives shook with the wagon – and for the first time since he woke, Uthred looked at them properly, faces pressed to knees, stifling tears.

There had to be at least 20 of them, in the cage with them. Uthred tried to study their faces, through the swirl, but he didn’t recognize anyone – just priests, a few soldiers, servants, men and women, with sodden clothes and bleeding, bound wrists. Hands clutched at crosses, whispering prayers. Sobs trailed in the grey, quiet, terrified, drowned in the pour.

_They had to have come from our camp too._

They had to be Alfred’s people, Alfred’s priests, Alfred’s servants – but no one was looking at him, too afraid, too desolate.

Ice bit into his skin.

“How long have I been out?” Uthred asked, and he turned back to Alfred, to his men. He had to focus now, gods damn it, he had to _think._ He watched the raindrops trail down the sides of Alfred’s face, for a moment, and then, he looked away.

_Focus._

“All day, really,” Finan replied, patiently, and Uthred was really going to be sick now.

_A whole day?_

“What?” he looked up to the sky again, between the black bars – and yes, there was the sun, hiding behind the weeping clouds, a pale light hanging low, atop the trees. It had to be late afternoon now. He had lost a whole day to the black.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck-_

Fear began to unfurl in his chest, tendrils of black dread.

_What did I do? How could I let this happen?_

He was supposed to get Alfred out. He was supposed to protect him, but now, now, _fuck-_

He tried to swallow down the ache, the churning bile.

“We thought you were dead, at one point,” Finan added, simply, as he used his bound hands to wipe the rain away from his face, dirt smearing, “You got too cold. Couldn’t bloody wake you.”

Guilt burned through Uthred’s veins. Alfred said nothing.

_How could I let this happen?_

As the rain pelted down, clouding the world, Uthred turned his attention to the grey around them, to the trees, and the men. He needed to figure out what to do now. He didn’t have time for pain, for writhing fear.

They were in a _cage._ Alfred was in a _cage._

_Fuck, think. Just fucking think._

_We need a plan._

“Who are they?” he asked, as he peered out now to the men beyond the cage, ice-cold water dripping down his back, “Have they said anything?” All around them, the Danes marched on, clopping horsemen, walking, hulking warriors, dripping wet in the pour. He couldn’t see them clearly, not as his head swam – but there were too many of them, trudging through the mud on all sides.

Finan snorted lightly.

“Nothing I understand,” he replied, as Osferth watched on quietly, as Alfred looked away, “They only speak their tongue, and you know I’m shit at it. They took our weapons, armour - made us unhook yours too. Can barely understand them. Don't recognize any of them either. Fuck-ugly, the whole lot."

Uthred couldn’t see any other wagon or cage on the road with them. A Dane sat at the head of their wagon, steering the horses, his head veiled from the rain.

_Too far to reach. All of them._

“How many?” he asked quietly.

“Too many,” Finan answered, and he lowered his voice too, the wagon rattling, “20, 30? It’s definitely not all of them. I’d wager the rest are still back at the camp.”

“Why? Are they taking more prisoners?”

Finan paused then, for a second. His eyes flickered over to Alfred, and something wary flashed across his face.

“I don’t know,” he said, carefully, rain flecking down his black beard, “We don’t know where everyone else is. We don’t know who else got out.”

Dread strummed against Uthred’s ribs, like bony fingers upon a lyre.

_Thyra._

_Beocca._

With a sharp breath, he snapped his head back to the other prisoners – but of course, they were not there. Uthred would have noticed Thyra or Beocca immediately, Sithric too. They must have gotten out. They must have reached Coccham by now.

_Unless they were taken too, in the woods. We weren’t fast enough, why would they be?_

_Maybe Thyra is another cage now, down the road. Maybe Beocca is already dead, Sithric dead-_

He closed his eyes and breathed in the cold bleak air.

_No. They got out._

_They must have gotten out._

He swallowed past the choke in his throat, the claws gripping around his heart. The wound pulsed at his arm, blood trickling down. With another deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked back at Alfred, pain snaking down his veins.

“Edward?” he asked, but he already knew the answer to it. Alfred tilted his head back to him, just a little, his eyes staring at nothing, at the metal bars.

“I don’t know,” and his voice was calm, quiet, completely inscrutable. Guilt twisted through Uthred’s chest, like a piercing lance.

“Steapa must have gotten them out,” Finan added, and it was as if he had been saying it on repeat, his eyes flicking back to the king, round and wide, “I told you, Lord. That man is stubborn as shit. He wouldn’t let anything happen to-”

“You don’t know that,” Alfred snapped, and his hands clenched together, his jaw clicking tight. Uthred could suddenly feel the king’s fury, bristling, splitting through the pale.

“We haven’t seen them since the tent,” Osferth said quietly, “We haven’t seen anyone else.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t _mean_ anything,” Finan hissed, “It just means that _we’re_ the unlucky bastards. We’re the idiots who got caught. For all we know, everyone made it back to Coccham. They’re probably all there now, planning, trying to find us.”

Alfred glared at Finan, all the walls cracking.

“You don’t know that,” he started, fury brimming, his shoulders rising, his body ready to snap, to burn – and Uthred had to stop this now, they didn’t have time for this.

“Stop, this isn’t helping,” he groaned, and Alfred snapped his mouth shut, his eyes flashing back to him for a second, blazing bright blue. Finan huffed quietly beside him, and Uthred just let the quiet sit between them for another moment, the rain pattering bitter cold through their bones. The man beside Alfred, a priest, began to sob, his weeps barely heard over the creaking cage.

_Fucking hells._

He could still feel Alfred’s rage, blistering through the cracks – but he had listened to Uthred, for some reason, staring silently down at his hands.

“Do they know who you are?” he asked the king, metal bars thudding against the back of his head. Alfred looked away again, to the world beyond their cage.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice clipped – and then, he let out a deep, quiet sigh, the tension easing from his shoulders. The rage withered away, if only for just a moment.

“When they took us, they called me _konunga,_ ” he sighed, and he looked back to Uthred now, his brow creasing a little, his voice unsure, careful as it stumbled over the Norse word, “They kept using that word. _Konunga, konungar?_ ”

“ _Konungr,_ ” Uthred replied, his gut falling. 

“ _Konungr,_ ” Alfred repeated, nodding, “Yes, that’s the word they used. Now, my Dane isn’t good as it should be, and I may have misheard, but if I’m not wrong, it means -”

“King,” Uthred finished, heart plummeting, “They know you are the king.” He wanted to bash his head against the cage, until he saw red.

_Fuck. Fuck._

“Yes, I suppose they do,” Alfred replied coolly. Black claws crushed around Uthred’s throat.

_This is bad. This is all so bad._

“But how?” Finan spoke again, wagon clattering, “How did they know to find you? How did they even know it was you?”

“Spies?” Osferth whispered, eyes wide – but Uthred was already shaking his head, fear, panic swelling in his chest.

“They didn’t need spies,” he gritted, and he wanted to punch something now, he wanted to _fight._ Every inch of him was beginning to crawl, and he was panicking, he was fuming, he was losing control, pain gashing.

_Fuck this. Fuck all of this._

Alfred scowled at him, eyes narrowing.

“What does that mean?

Uthred didn’t know what else to do but be furious now. 

“Well, it’s not like you were subtle about it,” and he needed to calm down, he needed to think, fear fluttering wild in his veins, “You go parading about the land, with more priests than guards, and everyone is bound to hear it. Of _course_ they attacked. They must have been following you, watching-”

“No, Danes raid in the summer, not now, Uthred,” Alfred snapped, eyes twisting black. 

“Danes raid whenever they fucking want, Lord,” Uthred snarled, “As usual, you underestimate everything.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Alfred glared at him, jaw wound impossibly tight – and his rage was back, blistering off his skin, breaking through the dam. His hands clenched together so tightly now, knuckles turning white.

_What am I doing?_

A breeze rattled through the cage, whipping icy rain. Finan cleared his throat.

_Why the fuck am I so angry with him? This isn’t Alfred’s fault._

“You would blame me for this,” Alfred said, and his voice was hard and brittle now, like shards of broken glass.

“You should have brought more guards,” Uthred bit back, and he was just so furious, so terrified, everything inside of him thrashing like a storm. He was being stupid. He was being irrational.

_Fuck, stop. What am I doing?_

“Uthred,” Finan began, lowly, eyes darting between them – but the waves were crashing, and Alfred was burning.

“Or perhaps you should have done a better job of defending your king, Uthred,” Alfred retorted, spitting flames, “Or are you not the hero of Ethandun? Of Beamfloat? Is that not what you always like to remind everyone?”

“This is not my fault,” Uthred hissed, guilt roiling.

“Yes, it never is, is it?”

“Do you understand what’s happening?” he snarled, heart pounding, “Do you have an idea what they are going to _do_ to you?”

“I-”

“Your men are dead. Your guards are gone. And these lot?” Uthred waved his bound hands at the trembling crowd around them, arm aching, “They will not protect you, Lord. They cannot.”

“But you will,” Alfred snapped, “You are sworn to me. You will protect me.”

“They are going to _kill_ you,” and the words burst out of him, without thinking, his heart storming in his chest. He could hear the desperation in his voice now, bleeding through the words – and across from his, Alfred blinked, brow furrowing.

_Fuck._

He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have let it spill out like that, the cold black fear –

_But they are. They’re going to kill him, they’re going to take him away from me, fuck, fuck, my fault, mine-_

The panic was cresting, overwhelming, and it took everything inside of him to push it back down again, to not show a thing.

_Breathe, just breathe, I’m no good to anyone like this._

Uthred watched as the wind whispered through the king’s soft, damp hair. Alfred looked back at him, quiet now, the fires waning from his eyes.

_My fault, mine, fuck. Stop._

Something flickered across Alfred’s face.

“No, Uthred, they will not kill me,” and the king’s voice was calm now, his eyes boring into him. Something cold and impassive crept across his features, jaw firm – and as Uthred watched, every trace of rage, of fury fell away in a breath, behind the cool pale mask.

Black claws grasped, but Uthred swallowed it back again and tried to breathe through his swirling thoughts.

“You don’t know that,” he gritted, blood racing. Pain arched down his side.

“Yes, I do,” Alfred replied, composed and calm again, “Uthred, we’re in a cage. If they wanted to kill us, they would have already done so. No, I am the king. I am no good to them dead.”

And Uthred couldn’t understand how Alfred always managed to twist the world around him, to conceive even this situation into whatever he wanted.

_Fucking idiot._

_Don’t you know what Danes do to kings? How can you believe that they will actually let you live?_

Uthred’s heart wrenched, claw grasping around his throat.

_They are going to kill him. My fault, mine._

Alfred watched him calmly.

“Is that what they said?” Uthred asked, choking past the thoughts, rain gnawing, “Could you understand anything else-”

“Why else would they keep me?” the king interjected, his head tilting slightly, “Why else would they take us? No, they will ransom me back to Wessex. That is the only possible outcome.” Alfred’s voice was too sure now, too _confident,_ his bound hands jostling against wet, knobby knees.

_Why can’t you panic too? Why are you always so damn calm?_

Something burned in Uthred’s gut, lancing through the pain.

“Well,” Finan began, voice light, but Uthred cut him off. 

“No, it isn’t,” he bit, and anger, anger, he could rely on that, the red pushing back against the black, his mind, his body an endless mess, “We don’t know if they are going to ransom you to Wessex, we know _nothing_ -”

“What else could it be, Uthred?” Alfred asked, “What else could they possibly want?”

“Your head,” he snapped, bristling, “There are plenty of Danes out there who would pay gladly for your head, Lord.”

The king shook his head, sniffling quietly.

“I am more valuable alive.”

“No, you’re more valuable dead,” Uthred retorted, “If you’re gone, then Wessex is open to all. There are _bounties_ for you, all over East Anglia, Northumbria, everywhere. I’ve told you this before.

“Every lord in England has a bounty on their head, Uthred. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Lord, you are the king. All these men have to do is sell you to some earl up north, or-”

“Where they will ransom me back to Wessex-”

“You are the _king_ ,” and Uthred felt the waves crash, the panic, the madness, the fury roil, “Why would they return you for silver, when they can just kill you and leave Wessex without a king? Without you, there will no defense, no one to call the fyrds. Edward is a boy, they will not listen to him, or his mother. It will be chaos – and the Danes will march through and just take whatever they want.”

Silence reigned as the wheels creaked and groaned, slogging through the mud. Alfred looked at him still, barely stirring, his skin too pale, his eyes too cold. Shivers trembled down Uthred’s back.

_They are going to kill him. Gods, they are really going to kill him._

_Useless. Pathetic. This is my fault._

Alfred looked away.

“Then why take me?” he asked, eyes flickering out to the grey again, wind lashing, “Why not just kill me there?”

And Uthred knew the answer to that, almost instantly, his heart twisting black.

_My fault. This is my fault._

In a blink, a thousand terrible images flashed through his mind, a thousand different possibilities – because even if these Danes intended to sell Alfred to another, to Haesten, Guthrum even, whoever got him in the end would not make it a quick death. No, they would parade him. Humiliate him.

A Saxon king brought to his knees, the mighty Alfred the Great tortured, disgraced in the mud.

He remembered King Edmund of East Anglia, from all those years ago, strapped to a cross, shot through with Danish arrows. He remembered his own father, tied to a post, a twisted sword in his hand and a stake gored through his mouth.

_No, fuck._

He saw Alfred there, tied to a post, a stake gored through his mouth.

_No, not him._

Black claws choked around his throat. Grief stabbed through his chest.

He looked at Alfred, at his bound hands, at the rain trailing down his soft, pale skin. 

_Never him. Never._

The wagon lurched to a halt, metal creaking.

“What now?” Finan grouched, their bodies bucking with the cage. Around them, the other prisoners stirred, some looking up, around, frantic – and as the rain drummed, the Danes began to yell, shouting to each other in their tongue. The driver in front of the cart lashed his whip against the horses, the beasts whinnying, surging – but the wagon just rocked in its place, mud sloshing, wood groaning.

They were stuck, it seemed, caught in the mud.

The wind rattled once again through the iron bars.

“What’s happening?” Osferth asked lowly, craning his neck. Alfred furrowed his brow, and the Danes began to approach the cage, steering their hulking steeds. Their voices were hoarse and crass, disgruntled – and as they neared, Uthred began to make sense of it, the Norse words rumbling through the rain like low, black thunder.

“Shit. I _told_ you we shouldn’t have gone this way,” a tall Dane grumbled from atop his steed, his mane of knotted blonde hair dripping down his back. He slowly trudged towards the cage from the right - and behind him, Uthred could see others, straggling down the path, drowned in the rain. 

There were at least 10 of them there, lining down the road – and Uthred could feel something in his mind begin to stir, to wake beyond the thrashing waves.

_Wait, wait a second._

_This could be something._

Behind the cage, another Dane barked, his voice slightly muffled in the rain.

“What other fucking choice do we have?” he growled, and Uthred couldn’t move his body enough to look over his shoulder, to the Danes there and the road beyond. Beside him, Finan shuffled quietly, lowering his head.

“Lord, what are they saying?” he muttered, leaning a little closer, but Uthred shushed him quickly now, with a glare. He had to listen to these men. He had to be the only one in the cage that could actually understand them. 

_Fuck, maybe I can figure out where they are taking us._

Across from him, Alfred met his eyes again, for a moment, jaw clenched tight. The order was plain enough.

_Listen._

Uthred felt his gut twist, claws tearing.

_This is my fault. My fault, mine._

_Fuck, listen damn it. I need to fix this._

He let the fire bloom in his chest, over the cresting dread.

“Is the wheel broken?” a stout, sour-faced Dane griped, on the right, from just behind the tall one.

“No, it’s just stuck again,” the tall blonde replied, his horse shifting impatiently beneath him, almost close enough now for Uthred to reach out and touch, “I told you we should have taken the main road. These paths are shit-”

“Well, then next time, Halldor, you can take the prisoners and march them straight through Lundene,” the faceless voice behind snapped once again, “I’m sure the Saxons will let you through, welcome you with fucking open arms.”

The blonde -Halldor – frowned, and barked something back – but Uthred’s mind was working now, beyond the battering waves, the Dane’s words ringing through his ears like a chiming bell.

_Lundene._

_Finan was right._

They were heading east.

_They wouldn’t need to go around Lundene at all, if they intended to go north, to Northumbria_ _._

The Danes were still barking at each other, and Uthred’s panic, terror was churning into pure rage.

_These arseholes are trying to take Alfred to East Anglia. They have to be trying to take him into Daneland._

Halldor was still grumbling.

“The wheel’s going to break by tomorrow, just you see,” he gripped, beard soaking wet, “I’m telling you, we should just make them all walk, fuck this stupid wagon-”

“Are you fucking stupid?” the sour-faced man groused, scowling in the rain.

“Can we lift it?” a new voice shouted, from further behind, another faceless Dane.

“Uthred, what is going on?” Finan asked again, his voice barely heard over the squabbling men, the pattering rain.

“No, get them out,” a Dane called from the front, a large man with a wide brow and a dark, thick beard, “We can’t lift it out of the mud with them in there. Halldor, Torleif, open it.”

“Uthred, what are they saying?” Alfred whispered, but the Danes were moving now, swarming around the cage. It all happened so quickly then, Uthred had barely time to think.

With a loud click, a lock turned, just above his head, and then the metal bars behind Uthred’s back was swinging away, with a loud creak. Before he could breathe, hands grasped the back of his shirt, pulling roughly – and Uthred went tumbling back, out of the cage and into the mud.

Pain shattered through his skull as his head smacked back against the drowned earth. His vision greyed for a second, ache splitting.

_Fuck this._

“Lord!” he heard Osferth cry – but Uthred was furious now, he was _alive._

All the black thoughts of before, all that grief scattered away now as the fire raced down his veins. 

_I can fix this._

Hands grabbed him again, hauling him out of the mud – and with a snarl, Uthred smashed his head against the nearest face, pain blinding red. The man let out a yell, staggering back, and Uthred ducked a flying fist, whipping through the rain. 

_I have to save him._

He lashed his knee up, smashing against leather armor. The mud slipped beneath his feet, and a fist rammed into his gut, blowing the breath right out of him. 

“Uthred!” Finan yelled, and another fist smashed into Uthred’s face, teeth rattling. His knees staggered beneath him, blood flooding his mouth- and a boot kicked him brutally in the side, right in the wound. A scream tore out of his lips as agony ripped through his veins. 

“Stop it!” a voice yelled, but Uthred could only feel pain now. His bound hands reached uselessly to the wound, and a fist struck him in the face again, his body giving out and slumping to the ground. Mud rushed down his throat.

“Idiot,” a deadpan voice snarked, from above. Laughter split through the air, like crashing thunder. Finan was still yelling, cursing into the wind.

_Useless. Pathetic. My fucking fault._

"Get him up," a deep voice growled, and Uthred could do nothing now as hands grabbed him again, and hauled him viciously to his knees. Every inch of him ached.

_My fucking fault._

Behind him, a Dane grabbed him by the hair, and jerked his head violently back. A blade pressed against Uthred’s neck, cold as ice. 

_Alfred._

Rain and mud stung his eyes, muddling the world. He tried to look back to the cage, to Alfred, and the hand on his head wrenched him back again, pain screaming. The blade bit into his neck, breaking skin. 

“He’s a fighter,” and a Dane loomed before him now, the large one with the wide brow, and thick, dark beard. His words rolled out in a strange accent, slightly different from his compatriots. Finan let out another string of curses, out of Uthred’s view – and then he let out a loud _oof,_ as if somebody had punched him too.

“Let’s just kill him, Thorir,” a voice called from the side, gasping slightly, “I think the fucker broke my rib.”

“Stop whining, Einar,” the large Dane – Thorir – grumbled back, “It’s not fucking broken.”

“I thought he was dead,” the man holding Uthred said – and it was that blonde, Halldor, holding him captive, pressing the blade into his neck, “I swear it. Isn’t this the one we found with the king?”

Uthred tried to move again, to look back at Alfred – and the blade cut a little deeper, hot blood spilling down his neck.

“ _Be careful_ ,” Thorir grunted, his eyes like blades of steel in the grey-swept rain, “He’s no good to us dead, idiot. No, he’s a fighter. He’s still strong. We can get more for him, I think.”

Uthred could taste the blood in his mouth now, like burning, dark copper. His wound was still flaring, twisting red.

_I can’t even do this. How could I let them do this?_

He wanted to see Alfred, he _needed_ to see him.

Blood soaked into his collar. Cold mud sludged down his skin.

_Useless. Pathetic._

The words spilled out of him now, bitter with blood.

“Where are you taking us?” he growled, teeth gnashing, heart racing wild. All around him, the Danes fell silent, the wind howling through the trees. Uthred couldn’t really see them all, only Thorrir and the grey sky – but he knew he was surrounded completely, exposed to every blade.

_One more move, and they will kill me._

_And I am no use to Alfred dead._

He wanted to kill every single Dane around him, to hack them all to death.

“You speak our tongue, boy?” Thorrir spoke, looking down on him with slightly narrowed eyes. 

“Is he a Dane?” Halldor croaked behind him.

“No, of course not,” another replied, “Why the fuck would a Dane protect a Saxon king?”

“Good question,” Thorrir grunted, and he reached down and grabbed Uthred by the chin, his fingers digging into his muddy skin. The blade at Uthred’s neck shook with the momentum, but it didn’t gash him further, metal pressing flat against the bleeding wound.

Grey eyes studied him, cold as the world around them. Thorrir pulled Uthred’s chin even further up, straining his neck.

_I am going to kill them all._

“Enough,” Alfred said, and Thorrir snapped his head to the side, to the looming cage. His grip eased a little from Uthred’s chin – and in that moment, he could move his face again, just ever so slightly, his eyes darting back towards the black cage.

Alfred was standing now, in the cage, his tied hands clutching at the bars, his head stooping beneath the metal ceiling. The cage’s doors were wide open, the captives inside pressing back away from the Danes – but Finan was there, half-sprawled out of the wagon, two Danes gripping him in place, an axe hovering over his head. Beside him, Osferth was on his knees, still in the cage, a Dane leering before him, sword in his face.

_They must have tried to fight their way out too._

Finan blazed with fury, Osferth wide-eyed with fear. Alfred glanced at Uthred, for just a second, face unreadable – and then he looked at Thorrir again, eyes like blistering gales.

“You want me, not him,” the king said, in simple Norse, his voice clear and smooth in the icy rain. His grey robes fluttered as the wind picked up again, horses whickering as the rain lashed through the air.

For a moment, no one spoke at all, the Danes looking hesitantly at each other, somehow quelled for a breath. Uthred could feel the blood trailing down to his chest, the sting nothing compared to the searing stab in his side.

_Alfred, what are you doing?_

The king clenched his jaw.

“You want me, not him,” he said again, louder, as cold as the wind. He looked half-drowned, clutching at the bars, small and so defenseless – and yet somehow, in that moment, he was still every bit the king he was born to be.

_What are you doing?_

For a long while, no one spoke a word, the world frozen in place.

And then, Thorrir cleared his throat.

“Yes, we want you,” and somehow the man was speaking English now, his voice running slowly over the words, clear and sure, “But why should we settle just for you, Lord? Your man here is going to make us rich too. They _all_ are.”

All around them, the Danes seemed to let out a shared breath, the tension in the air, Alfred’s spell, dissipating as quickly as it had come. Halldor’s hands clawed tighter into Uthred’s scalp, his breath hot and rank.

“Wessex will pay for us,” Alfred said, switching back to English too. His voice was still so sure, so even, betraying nothing at all. Finan muttered a curse.

“I don’t deal with Saxons,” Thorrir replied, and he released Uthred’s chin from his grasp, his fingers still branded against the skin like red-hot pokers. With a sigh, the Dane waved his hand, and Halldor pulled Uthred to his feet, by his hair, the pain tearing through his skull. The blonde pulled the blade away from his neck – and a fist struck Uthred in the side again, tearing red. A gasp spilled from his lips as the world spun, his body doubling over.

“Then where are you taking us?” Alfred asked, and there was something clipped in his voice now, something a little rough. Uthred couldn’t see him now– just the mud, the pain, the cold air choking down his veins.

_Useless. Pathetic._

Halldor pulled him up again, and pressed the blade to his back. Alfred stared at Thorrir, rain dripping down his face.

The Dane stared back, for a moment, thinking, sizing up the king.

“To the ships,” he finally said, calm and unperturbed, “We are going to sell all your men to the slavers’ ships, as we always do.”

“But not me,” Alfred replied.

“No, not you, Lord,” Thorrir said, and a small, icy smile twisted at his lips, “You’re King Alfred. You’re the King of Wessex, and every Dane in Northumbria will come and watch as we skin you alive."

Uthred felt his heart drop, into a black pit.

_Useless. Pathetic._

The Danes murmured amongst themselves, some sniggering – but Alfred looked at Uthred now, his jaw clenched too tight.

_My fault, this is my fault._

“Get them out,” Thorrir rumbled, and turned away, towards his steed. The Danes began to drag the captives out, Finan cursing, tumbling into the mud. The blade pressed into Uthred’s back, as Halldor dragged him back, through the rain.

_Fuck, what am I going to do?_

Alfred watched him quietly, over the stumbling heads. He had nothing left to say, his blue eyes storming like dark, crashing waves.

_What have I done?_

Something flickered across Alfred’s face, something close to fear. Black claws gripped around Uthred’s heart.

_Is this our fate?_

The wind rattled against black metal bars.

* * *

Uthred had never cared much for the stars. 

Even as a child, they held little interest for him, just pinpricks of light, like snow-white frost, scattered far above his head, in a different world. It was Thyra who had always dragged him out at night, who sat him on that grassy hillock just outside their home and taught him the name of all the stars, their shapes, and their ways. Old Ravn would teach him the stories after, around the burning hearth – of Aurvandil’s Toe, frozen in the ether, of Tjatse’s Eye winking at the earth. Uthred had never been any good at seeing the patterns, had never cared much for something so far away – but he loved the stories, the old man’s voice rumbling beneath the wooden eaves. 

_And there it is, Aurvandil’s Toe, frozen in the ether._

Uthred watched as the clouds curled away from the trembling star, just one among a thousand. The old man’s voice rumbled in his ear. 

_If only he could see me now._

Beside him, Finan shuffled in his sleep, his skin burning warm. The cold soft wind whispered, clinking against the metal bars. 

_I wonder if he sees me now._

The moon watched him quietly. 

All around him, the world was silent, black and peaceful, the forest sighing gently as the breeze twirled through the leaves, dark branches rustling as owls hoot into the night. Up above, the rain clouds had cleared, wisps of grey against cold white stars – and below, among the shrubs, the Danes slept peacefully, in their furs, the fire nothing more than crackling embers, grey smoke trailing in the wind. There were still two Danes up, on guard, murmuring amongst themselves, poking at the dying flames – but the rest of the world was quiet now, asleep, at peace at last. 

Uthred could feel the chill now, gnawing into his bones. His clothes were still damp with rain and mud, his skin caked all over with dried blood. 

The wound at his neck throbbed, shallow but still tender. His stomach moaned aloud.

He was very tired now.

It had been hours since the fight, since Uthred had tried desperately, stupidly to fight all the Danes around them. His body still ached everywhere, the searing pain now a dull throb, his mind and body a little too numb to feel it in its entirety. All around him, in the cage, the captives slept in their crouches, men and women murmuring in their sleep, shattered from the fear – but Uthred couldn’t rest, couldn’t close his eyes, his bound hands cramped, grimy with dried mud. 

He couldn’t figure out what to do. He couldn’t really think. 

He was cold. He was exhausted. His mind felt adrift as if lost in a fog, and though his head had stopped spinning, and the bile had stopped burning, it all still ached, every inch of him fatigued beyond compare. Beside him, Finan pressed a little closer, his head resting on his shoulder, still somehow avoiding Uthred’s wound in his sleep. Osferth was crumbled on the other side, snoring against the metal bars. 

The Danes had left them in the cage for the night, as was usually the way. The wagon was sitting in the middle of the camp now, among the sleeping men.

Uthred stared up at the stars again, and thought about Ravn. He wondered if the gods were watching too, if they were listening now. 

_Is Odin watching from the sky, wondering what the fuck I'm doing?_

_Is Ravn watching me now too, whispering in the wind?_

Uthred had never much for the stars, and sometimes he never quite cared for the gods – but now, as he shivered in his threadbare clothes, captured, starving in a cage, he wondered if this was somehow his fate, his fucking destiny.

_And wouldn’t that be ironic? After all this time?_

_If this was exactly what the Norns had always planned for me?_

“Are you trying to read the stars? Figure out where we are?” a voice spoke softly, in the wind, breaking through his reverie. Uthred let out a quiet sigh.

_Of course he’s awake._

He tore his eyes away from the heavens, and down back to the earth. Across from him, in the cage, Alfred watched him silently, his head resting gingerly on the metal bars. His hands were still bound, just like the rest of them, muddy hands hanging over grey-clad knees – and in the soft pale starlight, in the trailing moonlight, he looked exhausted too, his dark hair hanging limply around his pale, sharp face. His blue eyes were dark now, shrouded in the shadows of the night, but somehow, still, he looked –

_Beautiful_

Uthred’s heart pang, his gut twisting black.

_What am I doing?_

This wasn’t the time for it.

_It’s never the time for it._

He looked away, to the crackling fire, between the metal bars.

“No, not really,” he replied, clearing his throat. The wind bit against his skin, like cold, raking claws. Alfred let out a sigh too, his breath white in the wind.

“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t do us much good anyway,” he said, calmly, voice low and clear, “I doubt we will be able to get out of this cage.” For a moment, Uthred didn’t reply, as he watch the shadowed guards poke at the flames with a branch, their rumbling voices dancing along with the rustling of the leaves.

His mind felt a little astray, and it took a moment for him to realize just what Alfred had said.

_Fuck._

He looked back at the king, at his soft puffs of cold white breath. Alfred was looking at the fire too, the low, ember light too far away, shadows dancing about his face.

Claws tugged at Uthred’s chest.

“You know they won’t do it,” he said, quietly, the wind whispering in his ear. 

“Hm?”

“What they said, about skinning you,” Uthred explained, shivers trembling down his back, “They were only trying to scare you, Lord. They’re not going to do that to you.”

Alfred let out another gentle sigh.

“No, I thought as much,” he replied, and his eyes darted back to Uthred, for just a moment, “From what I know, from what my spies tell me, the Danes do not often make a habit of flaying their captives, even when they are kings.”

Uthred’s lips quirked now, ever so slightly.

“No, Lord, they don’t,” he agreed, and a tendril of warmth stirred in his chest, like the burning embers of the campfire. Of course Alfred knew that. Of course he wasn’t afraid of such empty, pointless threats.

_I don’t know why that amuses me._

Somehow, even now, bound and wet and captive in a cage, Alfred was still so damn _sure_ , composed and calm beyond anything else.

_Unless, of course, he’s pretending. He’s still playing the king, the mighty, untouchable king._

Uthred watched as Alfred’s hair trembled against his cheeks, his eyes so weary, hooded, in the shifting dark.

_Is he afraid, just like me?_

_What am I doing, staring at the stars, wondering, panicking, when he, fuck-_

A mare grunted faintly near the fire, from where it dozed among the other steeds. Alfred spoke again, quietly, his voice a little more subdued now.

“Then again, I suppose it wouldn’t really matter,” he said, as he watched the embers spark from the distant campfire. Uthred frowned.

“Lord?”

“I think you were right, Uthred,” Alfred replied, “Or at least, you could be. Even if they do not intend to skin me alive, there is a chance, a more than reasonable chance, that these men plan to eventually kill me.”

Uthred felt his heart wrench.

“Lord, I didn’t mean – we don’t know what they’re going to do,” he replied, swallowing, and he wanted to reach out and _touch_ him now, to assure him somehow. He wanted to chase away whatever this was – because Uthred had been selfish, he had been stupid, he had _panicked,_ without even thinking, blurting out his worst fears, without even thinking about Alfred was feeling -

And gods, he didn’t know what Alfred was feeling, not really, not even now.

_Is this his way of telling me how terrified he is? Is he admitting he is afraid? Why would he do that? Alfred never admits anything._

Uthred didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do.

_What if this is what the Norns intended for Alfred too? What if despite everything, everything he had done, and hoped and worked for – what if this was Alfred’s fate too?_

Black claws choked around his throat. The wound on his side spasmed, a twitch of sharp pain, as Finan brushed against it in his sleep.

“No, it makes sense,” Alfred said, “To them, anyway. Why threaten to skin me alive, if they’re not going to kill me eventually, in some form or another?”

“I told you, Lord, they’re trying to scare you,” Uthred replied, claws grasping black.

Alfred looked back at him now, shaking his head slightly.

“No, what would be the point of that, Uthred? I am already their captive. If all they intended was to ransom me back to Wessex, then why not tell me that?”

“Because they’re raiders, Lord,” Uthred assured, “They’re Danes, this is what they do. They scare you, so you’ll shut up and do as they say.”

For a moment, Alfred was quiet, his eyes falling down to stare blankly at his hands. Uthred didn’t know what was going on in his head, if he was terrified, if he was trying to rationalize it, to shape the world in his mind. Osferth murmured in his sleep. The king let out another quiet sigh.

“I do not fear death, Uthred,” Alfred said, and his voice was slow now, quiet, his eyes blinking slowly at him, strangely resigned, “If it is as God intends, if there is purpose in it, then I cannot fear it. I cannot fear what he has decided for me.”

And not for the first time, Uthred thought his gods and Alfred’s were really not that different from each other.

_Fate wears many faces. The gods have many names._

And yet somehow, it still felt _wrong,_ the very thought of Alfred dead -

_Alfred, tied to a post, a stake gored through his mouth-_

Uthred breathed out into the trailing wind, his breath misting white in the black. Claws crushed around his heart. 

_No, no, that can’t be right. How can this be his fate?_

_What am I supposed to do, just sit back and allow this be to our destiny, to be his destiny?_

Uthred frowned again, his brow creasing as his arm stung against his side.

“You’re not going to die,” he said, slowly now, the words like grating sand in his mouth, “This cannot be your god’s plan.”

“I was always meant to die young, Uthred,” Alfred replied, and he looked up at the stars above, the distant, pale moonlight trembling against his skin, “Perhaps this was always what God intended.”

_I hate you._

Uthred swallowed back the grasping claws.

_I hate you for saying that, for believing in that._

He would not give in to this grief. He could not believe in it.

_There has to be a way out of this. This cannot be our destiny._

Something began to burn in his chest, something made of steel.

“If you die,” he said gruffly, the wound aching at his side, “Then England will die too. That cannot be your god’s plan.”

Alfred shook his head again, and looked back down at Uthred, his hair quivering in the wind.

“My son-”

“Is a boy,” Uthred interjected, plainly, “If they kill you, there will be no king left in England. There will be no one left to unite your people. The Danes _will_ take over, and England will never be Christian.”

“There is still the Lord of Mercia,” and Uthred didn’t know why Alfred was still trying to reason all of this, to shape the world with his words as usual, to believe in this _fate,_ “Aethelred may be a fool, but he is married to my daughter. That will hold sway-”

“Aethelred is a cunt, Lord.”

“He is a Christian,” Alfred glared, his voice hardening just a little, “And when I am gone, his seat, his men will matter.”

“Aethelred is weak,” Uthred replied, and an owl called in the distance, “He will never be able to hold back the Danes. No, he will try to take the crown away from your son – and if not him, Aethelwold will. Either way, no one will be able to stop the Danes. Without you, there will be no England.”

Alfred didn’t reply, not immediately. He watched Uthred, for a moment, his chin lifting a little. By the campfire, the guards laughed, over the spitting embers. Crickets chirped among the shrubs.

“What are you trying to do, Uthred?” Alfred asked, studying him. Uthred’s arm stung from where it brushed against the metal bars.

“I don’t want this to be our destiny,” he replied, flames unfurling in his chest, “This cannot be how it ends.”

“There are 20 men out there,” Alfred said, “We have no weapons, no armor. They will never untie us. If you try to fight them again, as you did, they will kill you this time.” Blue eyes flickered down to Uthred’s neck, to the shallow wound, still throbbing in the wind.

“There has to be a _way,_ ” Uthred said, and he looked down to his hands, something strong spreading, growing inside of him –

_Wait._

For a moment, he froze, and he couldn’t understand. He stared down at his right arm, at the sodden, bloody sleeve, at the clotting wound beneath.

A grey rag wrapped around his arm, like a tourniquet. Uthred had noticed it before, of course, when he woke, the wound bleeding down his forearm, the cloth wrapped around it, to hold back the bleed – and he hadn’t thought further of it, his whole body aching all over from bruises and cuts. It was nothing, just a grey cloth, half-dark now with dried blood.

_But I didn’t do this._

_And Finan can’t reach this arm, not from where he is._

He turned his right arm slowly, the wound bristling against cloth, and studied the haphazard knot. He looked back to Alfred, at his grey robes, at the tear at the end, near his feet.

_Oh._

Alfred had torn off a piece of his robe and wrapped it around Uthred’s wound. He was the only one who could have reached it, who could have done it. It was probably the only wound that any of them could reach.

_He must have done it while I was out. He must have stopped the bleed there._

And Uthred didn’t know why that suddenly mattered so much. Something inside him _burned,_ and he wanted to reach back beyond the ropes and touch that cloth, because Alfred had done it, it was _Alfred’s-_

_This is pathetic. This is stupid. What am I doing?_

He couldn’t understand why it was so important. He couldn’t stop the fire, the warmth from swelling in his chest.

He looked back up to Alfred, and the king was staring down at the grey cloth too, his eyes almost cloaked in the shifting shade. At Uthred’s glance, Alfred looked up, eyes meeting – and he turned back to the night, to the distant spitting flames.

Uthred watched the lines of his face, and let the warmth consume him now.

“This is not our fate,” he said, and felt the fire burn through his veins.

“Oh?” Alfred muttered, almost nonchalantly.

“No, this isn’t your god’s plan. It cannot be,” Uthred replied, and the wind whispered once again in his ear, “We will find a way out of this, Lord. This is _not_ your fate.”

Alfred let out a quiet sigh.

“And what exactly are going to do, Uthred?” he asked, as the breeze trembled through his hair, “Are you going to fight every Dane out there? Are you somehow, by some miracle, going to get us out of this cage?”

“Yes,” Uthred said, and his heart burned like steel, “We will find a way out of this. I will not let them take you.”

And he knew it to be true, above everything else. As Alfred hummed non-committedly and stared out through the bars, Uthred felt the resolve grip around his heart, embers burning in the black.

_This is not our fate. This cannot be our fate._

_I am going to find a way out of this. I am going to get Alfred home._

Pale white stars watched him from the midnight skies.

_This will never be his fate._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, phew! Guys, I'm sooo sorry for the late update. I had a little case of writer's block, and it was...argh. I'm really sorry.
> 
> Ok, so for the chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed it! It's a bit of mess, but I've exhausted myself with the rewrites, so, oh well. I hope Uthred wasn't too ooc here - but this is just kind of my interpretation of him? I know Uthred isn't normally a panicky character, but in my head, he just jumps to the worst-case-scenario when it comes to Alfred. (Also, yes, I'm trying to show that boy has some anxiety issues because, you know, trauma.) 
> 
> Also guys, I KNOW I should have mentioned the fact that Osferth had just gotten captured with his secret dad, but there was literally NO SPACE. I will explore it in the future chapters though. 
> 
> Lastly, I may go back to do some small rewrites in previous chapters, just for some thematic parallel. Nothing major. 
> 
> OK, I'm done. Please stay safe out there, and look after yourselves. See you! :)


	6. The Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, Alfred and Uthred fight a lot in this one, because a. they stupid, and b. they fucking stupid. There's quite a bit of angst in this one, so please enjoy lol

Uthred could smell the sea air wafting through the trees.

All around them, bristling green leaves and bare dark branches tore into the pale sky, the muddy road and the rustling forest the only thing in sight. The wagon rattled beneath them, jolting and creaking – and there was salt in the air now, the musk of cold wet earth, the promise, the terror of the ocean just beyond the marching trees.

Crickets chirped as the cold wind sang. Ropes bit into bloody skin.

_Fuck, we’re running out of time._

They were nearly at the coast now. It would only take another day or so. Before long, by tomorrow, they would see it, the eastern marshlands, the eastern shores, free from the bounds of the endless trees. They would finally see the sea, the bleak, grey waters stretching out into the horizon. They would finally meet the ships, the rusty shackles clanging as they swung in the breeze.

By tomorrow, they would find the slavers. By tomorrow, they would be sold away, upon the sandy dunes – and Alfred, Alfred would be taken away from him. Alfred would be gone.

_And how am I supposed to protect him then, from across the great black sea?_

_What use would I be to him from a fucking slave ship?_

Grief, exhaustion gnawed away at Uthred’s bones.

_What am I going to do?_

Horses nickered as the Danes trudged past, hooves clopping against damp earth.

_What the fuck am I going to do?_

It had been nearly four days now, four days in the cage. Nothing had changed, not really. They were all still bound, still trapped in the cage, cold and wet and sore, gut panging incessantly with hunger, muscles cramped tight and stiff. Captives crowded around them, bound and helpless – and they were all beginning to reek now, the foul stench of unwashed skin drifting in the wind.

Uthred knew he smelt too – he hadn’t changed or washed in days, dirt caking on his skin, his fingernails slowly turning grey. His friends were no better, Finan still pressed against his side, his breath rank with every sigh – but Uthred was used to this, was used to going without proper food and wash, was used to enduring it, to surviving. He had done it before, on the slave ships. He had done it as a child, as a slave too.

This, this was nothing.

Alfred looked like shit.

All around him, the captives, the Saxons were all stony and tired, faces mucky, eyes blank – but across from him, Alfred looked even worse, his eyes red with exhaustion, heavy and dark with shadows. Uthred had never seen him this grimy before, dirt marking his pale skin, his soft dark hair heavy as it brushed against his cheeks. His robes were filthy , his hands hanging limp – and he looked so shattered, so drained, his eyes watching the passing green, quiet and grave. The ropes around his wrists were dark and bloody, and Uthred could see how sore the skin beneath it was, how it had blistered and bled again, skin stained with blood and – 

_Fuck, fuck. What’s wrong with me?_

It had been four days now, four days in the cage, and Uthred had _nothing._ For the past few days, as the wagon rolled east, all Uthred had done was _think_ and look and plan – and fuck, nothing had come. Nothing had worked.

They had tried near everything, every senseless plan. They had studied the cage and tried to find a weak spot, a gap, anything. They had broken off a few splinters from the wagon and tried to use it, futilely, to open the cage’s lock. Uthred had tried to get Finan out of his bind at one point, tearing through rope with ragged nails, with teeth – but it was useless, the ropes too thick, their hands weak and pale as the binds gnawed into skin.

Osferth had pried a loose nail from the cage, a small, blunt thing, but it hadn’t worked with the lock either, nothing did. Uthred had tried to charge the Danes again, two nights ago, when they were let out to piss– but all he got for it was another beating, his bones still aching, his ribs sore and bruised. He had opened up the wound on his right arm again for it, blood still damp beneath Alfred’s grey cloth – and here they were, after all of it, bloody and bruised and no closer to escape.

One more night. That was all they had. One more night, in this cold, black cage, one more night with Alfred, before, before –

_Fuck._

He was supposed to get him out. He was supposed to protect him, get him back home, but every plan, every stupid, little thought in his head was either never going to work, or completely reckless.

Uthred could feel the endless rage, the weariness singing down his veins.

_Fuck, what am I doing? This cannot be his fate._

_Useless. Pathetic._

He wished he still had his blade.

“We’re passing Maeldun,” Alfred said, his voice soft and clear in the twirling wind. Beneath them, the wagon shook as it lumbered over the dirt-packed road, bodies bumping against each other.

“What?” Uthred frowned, binds biting red. The wheels creaked and groaned, drowning out their words.

“There,” Alfred replied, and he nodded his head to his left, up, to the trees beyond. Uthred followed his gaze, twisting his aching muscles – and there, to the east, he could see it now, gentle smoke spewing up into the skies, black-grey against the ashen white. It wasn’t from that far away, just a little beyond the trees, but Alfred was right, they were passing it by, grey fluttering in the wind.

“Is that a village?” Osferth asked as he leaned forward, peering over Finan’s head.

“A town,” Alfred said, without looking away from the smoke, “There’s a port there, Roman. Sits on the Blackwater.” Uthred watched as the wind whipped the king’s hair against his face.

“You know it?” he asked quietly, as he leaned his head back against the cold, black bars. 

Alfred let out a soft breath.

“I came here once as a child, as a pilgrim,” he said simply, his eyes still trained on the distant smoke, “There’s a chapel, not far from here, further east at Ithancester. It is said that St Cedd himself built it, as a beacon for the east.”

Osferth cleared his throat then, a little hesitantly.

“But doesn’t it belong to the Danes now, Lord?” he asked, shoulders bunched to his ears, “T-The town, I mean? Isn’t it all Dane?”

Finan muttered a curse.

“Of course it fucking is, monk,” he grumbled lowly, and he threw a half-heartedly glare at the younger man, “Where do you think we are? This is East Anglia. This is _all_ Daneland now.”

Horses whickered as the wind danced, Danes swaying slowly atop their steeds. Uthred could feel the wound on his side twitch, bloody scabs pulling tight against the gnawing chill.

_Where the fuck are we going with this? We don’t have time for any of this._

Alfred’s brow creased a little.

“No, that’s not right. This isn’t East Anglia,” he said, and he looked over to Finan now, his eyes gliding right over Osferth, “Maeldun used to belong to the Kingdom of Essex, before the Danish raids. The people are still Saxons. East Saxons.”

“I’m sure, Lord, but it’s all still Danelaw now,” Finan replied.

“Well, yes, but only for the past few years,” Alfred said, and Uthred had no idea where he was going with this, the cold crawling down his skin, “Essex used to belong to Wessex, and Mercia. We gave these lands to King Athelstan only a few winters past. These people, they’re not Danes. They are all still Saxons, _Christians._ There are still devout men here, in these lands.”

“What are you trying to saying, Lord?” Uthred grunted, his voice a little hoarse.

“They could help us,” declared the king, and his blue eyes flickered over to Uthred now, weary and yet sure, “Maeldun. They could help us get back to Winchester.” And Uthred could feel the frown creasing deeper onto his face. Frustration twisted beneath his veins as the wagon creaked again.

_Fuck._

He was doing it again. Alfred was trying to come up with something again, some inane, senseless plan.

He had been like this, ever since that night, since that talk of gods and fate, beneath the silver stars. Alfred wasn’t resigned anymore. He hadn’t been for days.

And Uthred couldn’t understand it, not even a little bit.

_Did my words somehow work on him? What the fuck is going on in his head?_

Finan scrunched his brow.

“Help us?” the Irishman said, and his voice sounded a little incredulous too, his arm brushing warm against Uthred’s, “Lord, we can’t even-”

“We need a plan for once we get out of this cage,” Alfred bit, hands clenching together.

“ _If_ we can get out of this cage,” Osferth mumbled, a little miserably. The king simply ignored him again, his voice a little harder now.

“We cannot just run all the way to Winchester. We need a _plan_ ,” he insisted, “If we do manage to escape tonight, or perhaps even tomorrow, then we can flee to Maeldun, seek refuge with the people there. They will protect us, I know it.”

“No, they won’t. Not against Danes,” Uthred replied, raising a brow, “We have no allies here, Lord.” Alfred’s lips began to thin.

“We have _Athelstan._ ”

“No, we don’t.”

“If we escape to Maeldun, we can send word to him,” the king retorted, a muscle jumping at his jaw, “I told you already, Uthred. If he learns what these men intend to do to me, he will send reinforcements, he will send help-”

“Lord, we cannot even get out of this _cage_ -”

“Yes, but at least I am trying to think two steps ahead, Uthred, I am _trying_ to plan-”

“What are you _talking-_ ”

“Oi!” An axe slammed suddenly against the iron bars. Metal clanged loudly, breaking through the grey. Uthred jolted away from the sound as other prisoners gasped, Alfred flinching back – and it was Halldor, on the other side, glaring at them through the bars on their right. Uthred’s heart jumped, instinctively, his muscles tensing tight.

_Fucking cunt._

He glared at the hulking Dane, as Alfred turned away.

“What the fuck did I say about talking?” The blonde man barked in Norse, spit flying. Beneath him, his horse kept pace with the cage, hooves clopping mindlessly. Uthred felt the rage burn through his veins.

“I don’t know, Halldor,” he snapped back in Norse, and he pressed his bound hands tighter to his gut, his face leaning closer to the bars, “Who the fuck knows what you say? You speak out of your horse’s arse.”

“Uthred,” Alfred warned.

“Right. What he said,” Finan chirped jauntily, clearly not understanding a thing. 

“Do you need another beating, boy?” Halldor growled, his axe still hefted in his hand. Behind him, beyond the bars, Uthred could see the other Danes looking at them now, Thorrir watching as their horses trudged on – but Uthred didn’t care, he was so damn _tired_ of this.

He was beyond frustrated, his whole body bloody and sore, and there it was, that urge inside of him, that red-black fury pushing through, aching, begging for a fight –

Because he had _nothing._ He had no plan, no way to get Alfred out. All they had been doing these past few days was plan and fail, and argue like this, in circles, meaninglessly – and all Uthred wanted to do now was kill all of them, these fucking Danes, to bash his fist through Halldor’s face, to feel his bones break beneath his hands. He wanted to fight them all again, to feel the sting of more pain, the slam of fists, the cuts of blades, he needed to fucking _let it out._

_Useless. Pathetic._

Every inch of him began to burn, to writhe. He opened his mouth to snap back, to let out all the rage, but Alfred’s voice broke through before him, harsh and strong.

“Uthred, _stop,_ ” and his eyes blazed blue, cutting like bright steel. Uthred glared at him, fury churning – but the king just looked at him, jaw firm, and something loosened in his chest. Halldor let out a sharp laugh.

“Yes, boy,” he chortled, “ _Stop._ Listen to your little king.” And Alfred pressed his foot against Uthred’s as the flames seared through his veins. It took near everything for him to shove it back down again.

_I am going to kill him. I swear it, on all the gods._

_I am going to kill them all._

Finan’s arm pressed a little more against him, a steady, constant thing. Uthred focused on Alfred’s foot, on the press of his shoe against his.

_I am going to kill them all._

“Halldor!” Thorrir barked, further down the road – and with a last little grin, Halldor trotted off, his horse’s tail whipping in the cold grey wind. All around them, the captives seemed to ease a little, a man beginning to cry again near the other end of the cage – but Uthred could still feel the rage, the twisting red beneath his veins. Osferth let out a quiet sigh, and Finan huffed out a breath.

“You cannot keep antagonizing them, Uthred,” Alfred said, and his voice sounded hard now, his brow furrowed as he scowled, his foot shuffling back, “What was the point of that? What are you trying to do-”

“I am going to fucking kill him,” Uthred hissed, as he watched Halldor trot away, laughing with another Dane.

Finan slowly nodded his head. 

“Yes, we will,” he calmed, and he lowered his voice, soothing and firm, “But Lord, we need to figure out how to get out first. There’s no point planning anything else if we can’t even get out of this cage.”

“Then maybe we should try and speak to them once again,” Alfred said quietly, and they were starting it again, the endless circle of words, the plans that never seemed to work. Uthred didn’t want to talk anymore. He wanted to fight, to rip the bars apart with bloody, torn hands.

_Useless. Pathetic._

He saw Thorrir looking back at them for a moment, from further on down the road. Grief and rage choked around his throat. 

“Lord, you’ve already tried that,” Finan said, ducking his head a little, voice low, “It didn’t work. It’s not going to work-”

“Then what if we can convince them to take us Headleage, to Athelstan?” Alfred said, gods, Uthred was so sick of hearing about Guthrum, “We can wait until nightfall, when they stop and take us for relieve. I can talk to Thorrir then, again. I can convince him-”

“Lord, it didn’t work the last time,” Finan repeated.

“Yes, but if we can convince them that there is more to gain by selling us to Athelstan, than maybe that is our way out.”

“They’re not going to talk to you,” Uthred grumbled, and he could barely keep the exasperation out of his voice, claws grasping red. This was beyond stupid now.

_Idiot, fucking- why can’t he listen?_

He was tired. He was so damn tired of it. He couldn’t argue with Alfred about this anymore.

_Fuck, why can’t I have a plan?_

“There is nothing else we can do,” Alfred muttered, and his eyes strayed away from Finan and back towards Uthred, his jaw wounding tight. The wagon shook as it lumbered over a hidden bump, wood and metal creaking.

“We can fight,” Uthred gritted, as the ropes gnawed into his wrists. Alfred frowned again.

“And they will kill you this time, Uthred. It’s not going to work.”

“Fine, then we wait until the ships-”

“No, I already told you-”

“We wait until they take us out to the ships, and then we _fight_ -”

“It will not work-”

“We have no other choice, Lord.”

“I can reason with Thorrir.”

“No-”

“Uthred, I am the king-”

“You’re only going to piss them off. They will not listen to you, Lord, they could fucking hurt you-”

“And if you try to fight them again, they _will_ kill you!” And for a moment, no one spoke at all, Alfred’s words hanging over them in the cold, grey wind. All around them, the horses’ clopped on, the wagon creaking to its tune, the green trailing by – and Uthred could feel the claws grasping tight, crushing around his chest. Alfred glared back at him, chest heaving a little more, and for a moment, the world was quiet, the wind briny as the sea, the gloom trailing through the air.

_Gods._

Uthred had no idea what to do anymore. None of these plans were going to work. They were arguing in circles, saying the same damn words. Claws seized around his chest.

Thorrir was never going to listen to Alfred. He had already threatened to cut out his tongue if he tried to speak to him again – and Uthred knew that they would do it, Alfred was still valuable without his tongue. Nothing was stopping the Danes from hurting him, as punishment, for fun. No, Uthred was not going to let him speak to Thorrir again. He was not going to let him risk himself like that, to draw attention to himself, in this pit of vipers, no, _fuck that-_

But what did Uthred have instead? What other plan did they have?

Another fight? Another beating? There was no way they could escape at the beach, Uthred knew that. Not from 20 men, on charging steeds. Not with arrows at their back.

No, they had nothing left. He couldn’t even _think_ anymore.

As the silence reigned in the quiet grey, Finan let out a sigh.

“So, what are we going to do?” he asked softly, as the wagon rattled on. Osferth rested his chin wearily on his bent knees. Alfred stared down at his knees.

“I don’t know,” Uthred replied, as he watched the king’s dark hair tremble against his face.

_We have nothing._

Blue eyes looked up at him, quiet, unsure. Uthred’s heart wrenched.

_I don’t know what to do anymore._

Grief sang in his veins.

* * *

Uthred missed his sword.

Up above, among the rustling branches, a raven croaked into the night, the moon hanging above its head like a cold, pale grin. The stars were hidden tonight, behind the bondless, black clouds – and it was all quiet now, all at peace, the cold wind dancing among the trees, the frogs croaking amongst the muddy reeds. The creek gurgled quietly, silver in the night – and there, in the distance, just beyond the looming trees, Uthred could hear it, a whisper in the wind, the waves of the sea crashing faintly upon cold, black shores.

The sea was just around the corner, just beyond the dark, rustling leaves. Crickets chirped into the wind, an endless, gentle song.

_I want my fucking sword back._

He wondered where it was, his blade, if it was still back in the glade, near the pond where he had fallen. He wondered if the other Danes had found it by now, if they had spotted it by its amber stone glinting among the green.

He wondered who held her now, his sword, his old Serpent-Breath. He wondered if he would ever see it again, that stone, his fucking legacy.

_Father will haunt me for this, I think, for losing that fucking stone._

He missed the feel of it in his hand, its strength, its steady, constant weight.

_I’m never going to see that sword again._

Sorrow strummed in his chest, like a soft, dark tune.

“You know, I don’t think it’s going to be that bad,” Finan said, his voice low and weary in the cold black wind. In the distance, beyond the cage, the Danes snored among their furs, lumps of shadows on the forest floor, beside the slow, trickling creek. A campfire withered among them, its embers barely red, the only light from the moon above, the world eclipsed in black.

Uthred let out a quiet sigh, as cold clawed through his skin.

“What?” he asked, as his head rested back against the cold metal bars. Finan leaned his head back too, just beside his, their shoulders brushing as they stared ahead, beyond the slumped prisoners.

“The slave ships,” the Irishman explained, voice a little drained, “We could do it again, you know. We survived it the first time.” The raven croaked into the black, from atop its barren perch.

Something dull tugged at Uthred’s chest, like an old, forgotten wound.

“Halig didn’t,” he replied quietly. The waves crashed in the wind. As Finan stiffened at his words, breath drawing sharp, Uthred turned away from the black, and towards the other shadows in the cage. His gaze fell helplessly on Osferth now, the monk blinking wearily in the dark, his chin resting on his knees – and Uthred could feel the pull in his chest, the wound, the scar, aching a little at the sight of him.

_He looks a little like Halig too._

_The same, young face._

Guilt twisted through his gut, like a coiling snake.

_He’s here because of me too. Just like Halig. He’ll die on the ships because of me, just like Halig._

Uthred looked away, down to his bloody wrists, claws choking around his throat.

_I don’t know what to do with all this guilt, in me. I don’t know what to do._

He looked across to Alfred now, to the face he knew better than his own hands.

_I’m failing them. I’m failing him._

_Useless. Pathetic._

His mind was mush, ground down to ash. He had no fucking plan.

“Where will they take us?” Osferth asked, from his corner, his voice low, barely heard over the whispering trees.

Uthred watched as Alfred looked up at the monk, for a moment, then back to his own hands, his dark hair framing gently around his face.

Finan let out a quiet grunt.

“The ships. Haven’t you been paying attention, baby monk?” Finan replied, glancing over to the younger man, and there was something cheeky in his voice now, something a little amused. Whatever pause he had at Halig’s name had fluttered away in the wind – but he still sounded tired, shoulders shuffling.

“That’s not what I mean,” Osferth mumbled, scowling just a little, “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Where will they sell us?”

Uthred sighed.

“Anywhere. Everywhere,” he looked back out into the dark, to the woods beyond the cage. Dark branches reached up into the black, like claws grasping at the moon.

“Northumbria, if we’re lucky,” Finan added casually, and he rubbed his hands together against the chill, “They might just take us north, up the shore, and sell us to the Danes there.”

For a moment, Uthred could almost feel the sway of the ship, the wood groaning as the waves crashed against the hull. He could almost taste the sea now, on the tip of his tongue, the gash of the whip tearing through his skin.

_No, stop._

He didn’t care for these memories now. They were no use to him.

“They could take us to Iceland again, for work,” Uthred muttered, into the dark, the cage creaking in the wind like the groans of a battered ship, “Or maybe home, back to Denmark. Jutland, Sjaelland. Wherever they can sell us.”

Alfred’s voice broke through the dark, low but clear.

“They took you that far? To Iceland?” he asked quietly, his brow furrowing. Blue eyes watched him now, through the wavering shadows, something like surprise flickering on his face.

“Yes,” Uthred looked back at him, gut twisting black.

“You never told me that, Uthred,” the king said, his hands clenching tight around his legs.

“You never asked, Lord,” he replied, and the raven croaked again. For a moment, no one spoke at all, as their quiet voices trailed away into the wind, lost among the trees. A shadow moved near the dying embers, most like a Dane guard warming his hands.

_The guard will be changing soon, like it does every night._

Alfred tilted his head slightly.

“They would take you that far, across the sea? Back to their land?” he asked. A captive murmured on the other side of the cage, a whimper in his sleep.

“If there is gold to be had, sure,” Uthred shrugged his shoulders, his voice low, carefully blank, “They will sell us wherever they want. If they don’t beat us to death first.”

“Why are we talking like it’s already settled?” Finan interjected, leaning a little forward, “Lord, we still have _time_ -”

“We don’t have time,” Osferth replied, something tremulous in his voice now.

“Shut up, monk. We have plenty of time. We have all fucking night-”

“But they brought you back the last time, to East Anglia,” Alfred frowned, and he was just ignoring Finan and Osferth now, brow pinching even more, “You came back, Uthred. They brought you back.”

And Uthred could never understand what was going in Alfred’s head, why he was even talking about this, why he was wasting his breath.

_It doesn’t fucking matter what they do to me._

_You. That’s all that matters. That’s all I care about._

“That was luck, Lord,” Uthred replied, as the creek babbled away. 

“Or fate. Isn’t that what you pagans believe?” and Alfred’s voice cut through the night, low but harsh, harder now. His frown was twisting into a glare, and something flared in Uthred’s chest, something hot and red.

“What exactly is the point of this?” he hissed, and he was getting angry, fucking _damn it,_ frustration rushing through his veins, searing down his hands. Uthred didn’t know why he was suddenly so furious again, something wild and frantic crashing through his chest – but what was the point of this? What was Alfred trying to do?

_We have hours. Fucking hours, before they take him away._

_We don’t have the fucking time for this._

“Lords,” Finan warned quietly, yet again, breathing out a sigh. Alfred clenched his jaw.

“You said this was not our fate, Uthred, that this was not what God intends.”

“It isn’t,” Uthred bit back, blood searing red.

“And yet, you have clearly given up,” blue eyes blazed through the sweeping gloom. Finan cleared his throat.

“Lords-”

“ _How_? How have I given up?” Uthred snarled, and he could barely keep his voice down anymore, rage writhing beneath his skin, “We have tried _everything_ -”

“You should have let me talk to Thorrir,” Alfred snapped, “It’s the only option we have left.”

“We’re not, no, he threatened to fucking kill you-”

“ _Lords_ ,” Finan hissed, digging his shoulders against Uthred’s, and he knew they were getting too loud again, the captive beside Alfred beginning to stir, eyes blinking wretchedly in the dark – but they were spiraling, sparing in circles, frustration, despair crashing through like waves.

“You said you would find a way out of this,” Alfred scowled, voice like brittle glass.

“There is no fucking way out of this cage-”

“Yes, so you give up.”

“I am not, you’re the one who said that _this_ was what God intended-”

“I did not-”

“You know there is no other way. We have to fight-”

“How many times-”

“ _Lords_!” and Finan shoved his elbow against Uthred, catching him in the side. Pain flared through his wound, a stab of shattering red. He cursed, snapping around to glare at his friend, teeth clenching through the ache – but Finan was staring beyond the cage now, tensed and still. His eyes were wide, bright and alert. He jerked his head, mutely, towards the campfire, and Uthred followed his gaze. 

Somebody was moving towards them, silently, through the black. It looked like a shadow, darting quickly, half-crouched – and Uthred couldn’t see his face, the embers burning a distant red. The raven croaked as the shadow approached, slipping around the snoring Danes.

_What the fuck?_

Alarm jolted through Uthred’s chest.

_What the fuck is this?_

The shadow crept up onto the right, to the bars that he and Alfred leaned against. Uthred pushed himself against the metal, facing the creeping shade. His muscles tensed. His shoulders squared, and he tried to move as close to Alfred as he could, his heart pounding beneath his ribs.

_What is this? Another Dane?_

He missed his sword. He wanted a fucking blade.

_Shit, fuck, fuck-_

Alfred leaned back a little, away from the bars.

No one spoke as the shadow approached, and stopped right at the cage. Uthred gripped the iron bars.

“Lord?” and _fuck_ did he know that voice. 

“Sithric,” he breathed, and the relief crashed through his veins, like a surging wave.

_Thank the gods._

“ _What_?” Finan muttered, from behind. The shadow stepped a little closer – and there he was, Sithric, half-crouched before the metal cage, dark eyes staring up at the them. Claws slackened from around Uthred’s heart, and he couldn’t help the stupid smile that broke across his face.

_Thank the fucking gods._

“You fucking bastard!” Finan hissed, and he shuffled forward, peering over Uthred’s shoulder, a grin clear in his voice, “Where the fuck did you come from?” The wagon creaked as his body moved, the trees whispering .

“What are you doing here?” Uthred puffed, and his eyes darted back to the sleeping Danes, his heart still pounding loud, “The guards, where-”

“Dead, Lord,” Sithric whispered, panting a little, “I already slit their throats.”

“I knew it, I _fucking_ knew it,” Finan snickered quietly, “I told you he would come for us.”

“You never said that,” Osferth muttered harmlessly.

“Shut _up_ , monk,” Finan huffed.

Uthred glanced over to Alfred, and the king looked back at him. The raven called again, beneath the pale, grinning moon.

“How many?” Uthred turned back to Sithric, the smile, the mirth falling away, “How many guards have you killed?” His body was starting to stir now, his blood roaring awake.

_Fuck, this is it._

_This is actually happening._

_I can get him out now._

“Two, Lord,” Sithric replied, eyes dark and wide, “They were the only ones on guard.”

“You sure?”  
  
“Yes, Lord.”

“Good, then the key-”

“Found it on one of the guards,” and the younger man reached to his side, and pulled out, seemingly from nowhere, a ragged rope hooped through a dark, rusty key. Uthred felt his body slump forward a little.

_Thank the fucking gods._

“Well done, Sithric,” Alfred said quietly, looking calmly down at the Dane. Uthred sucked in a breath.

_Now we fucking move._

And he had so many questions, about Thyra, Beocca, about how Sithric was even here – but it had to wait, they needed to _move._ Blood rushing, Uthred twisted his body, and waved his hand quickly to the back of the cage. Sithric darted forward, slipping up to the back, and quietly, almost noiselessly, he unlocked the cage with a low click. He pulled slowly on one of the doors, face half-veiled in the gloom – and the metal screeched, loudly, tearing into the night.

Everybody froze. Uthred’s breath caught in his throat.

Heart pounding, he peeped over his shoulder, back to the campfire, and the sleeping Danes – but nothing moved there, silent shadows in the dark.

Finan breathed out shakily. Uthred grabbed the cage’s door, and nodded his head down at Sithric.

_Slowly._

They opened it quietly, inch by inch. Uthred pulled up to knees as his bound hands clutched at the bars.

_Move. We have to move._

He jumped through the open door, feet thudding onto the ground. His muscles screamed at the jolt, the wound on his side rippling, pain tearing – but he swallowed it down, all of it, teeth gritting back. They didn’t have time for any of it.

_Fuck, move, move, move._

Finan leapt down quietly beside him. Osferth clambered out, bound hands tucked to his chest. Uthred turned back to Alfred – and the king was almost on his knees, still in the same spot. His hands grabbed around the bars, for support, but he was looking to his side now, to the other prisoners in the cage.

“Lord,” Uthred urged, as quietly as he could. He knew the woods were covering them, that their voices, like before, were hidden beneath the rustling leaves, the babbling creek – but they couldn’t make any mistakes now, they needed to fucking move. Alfred looked back at him, hair hanging about his face.

“We can’t leave them,” he whispered back and nodded his head to the other prisoners still bound in the cage. Uthred looked at them now – and some of them were beginning to wake, shuffling, whimpering, dark eyes looking out. They must have woken up with all movement, a priest near Alfred starting to cry again - and Uthred didn't have time for this, _fucking damn it._

“We don’t have time,” he bit, ropes gnawing into his skin. 

“Lord, we have to move,” Finan muttered, and he darted around to peek at the Danes, crouching down to the wagon’s height, hiding within its shade, “They have to be changing guard soon.”

Sithric pulled out a dagger, steel whispering in the wind.

“Uthred, they’re from my court. They’re here because of me,” Alfred insisted, but more and more prisoners were waking, mumbling, crying, growing louder with every breath. Grimy faces began to peer out of the cage, staring at the open door, at them, realisation drawing, men gasping out –

And no, _fuck,_ they were getting too loud.

“Quiet, _quiet,_ ” Uthred hissed, holding up his bound hands – but the prisoners were starting to move now, men rising hesitantly to their knees, eyes wide and terrified. Alfred turned to the bristling men, muttering something to them, voice calm and sure – but Uthred could already feel it now, the cresting of the wave.

_No._

The wagon creaked again and again as the prisoners moved, shuffling to their knees. Voices rose, senseless, panicked.

“ _Lord_ ,” Finan hissed anxiously. Uthred couldn’t stop it now.

_Fuck._

The prisoners rushed off the wagon, tumbling out of the cage, terrified, wild, voices hysterical, pleading to move. Feet stomped as the wood groaned and shook, and it was madness, bodies rushing, priests and servants scampering, trying to escape. Arms and legs shoved mindlessly, yells breaking into the night.

“Lord!” Finan cried, but it was already too fucking late. The Danes were waking, stirring from their furs.

Uthred could see Thorrir’s face peering out of the dark. His heart leapt into his mouth.

“Fuck!” Halldor yelled, and he needed to get Alfred out _now_.

“Move!” he shoved at the fleeing men, and he couldn’t see him, he didn’t know where he was. Alfred had to still be in the cage, men falling out, screams tearing now –

“Uthred!” Alfred yelled, and there he was, tumbling out with the rush.

_Thank fuck._

Uthred grabbed the king’s hand and pulled him off the wagon, his weight falling onto him. Their hands were still bound, their bodies staggering – but Uthred held on, clutching at grey robes, heart screaming beneath his ribs.

Alfred looked up at him, frantically, chest pressing against his.

_Move,movemovemove, get him out-_

An arrow ripped into a fleeing priest. Thorrir howled into the night.

“Get them! Get the king!” and they were running, fleeing into the woods. Screams shattered into the night, men tumbling, shoving as they fled. Danes roared as they charged, steel swinging into the black.

_Fuck, fuck, movemovemove-_

Uthred didn’t even have to think. He shoved Alfred before him, heart slamming, feet pounding against the earth. Finan flitted by their side, ramming against the men – and Uthred could see Sithric and Osferth now, right before them, dashing through the chaos too, through the tumbling black. Men darted in every direction, arrows whizzing through the air. They ran into the darkened woods, legs screaming red.

“We need weapons!” Finan yelled, as they bounded across a jutting root. Darkness pressed on every side, shadows tumbling around the trees.

_Move, move, fucking movemovemove-_

Uthred leapt over the silver creek, terror wrecking through his chest. Alfred lurched through the icy water, feet stumbling, panting sharp.

They couldn’t stop. They couldn’t fucking stop. Their feet flew across rocks and roots. Captives stumbled among the leaves, Danes crashing, arrows gashing – and there, behind them, Uthred could hear it now, horses stirring, whinnying in the wind. Hooves began to thunder beneath their feet, men screaming among the trees.

_Fuck, the horses. We can’t fucking outrun horses._

Alfred tripped over a root, staggering against a tree. Uthred grabbed his arm and shoved him on, heart thundering.

They needed a plan. He needed to think. They couldn’t outrun the fucking horses.

_I have to get him out, fuck, what, what am I going to do-_

“Lord, where do we go?!” Finan bellowed, as he ducked beneath a branch. They weaved through the tall black trees, screams tearing at their backs.

They had seconds, before the horses caught. Uthred knew that. They only had a few more seconds.

_Think, you bastard, think._

His eyes searched through the dark. A plan snapped half-formed into his head.

_Hide. We need to fucking hide._

“This way!” he yelled, and he turned to the left, feet flying into the dark. His men, Alfred followed him, darting, staggering through the leaves – and Uthred could feel the plan unfurl in his head now, his blood racing red.

_All we have to do is hide. We have to hide and wait._

He could see a gulley now, a darker shadow in the ground. Feet pounded far too close, Danes yelling, fires blazing into the black.

_Faster, faster, fucking seconds-_

The gulley gaped at their feet. Without a thought, Uthred dove down the bank, hurtling blindly into the shrubs. Branches tore against his skin. His men followed, feet stumbling.

“Where are we going?” Alfred panted, as they slipped down the rocky bank. His feet skidded, and Sithric caught him by the arm, leaves scattering in their wake.

“ _Quiet,_ ” Uthred hissed, and they reached the bottom of the dry ravine, roots catching at their legs. The leaves rushed around their feet, too noisy, too obvious.

_Fuck, fuck, fucking shit-_

Voices crashed nearby.

“Get down,” he muttered, and without a word, his men scurried back immediately, against the earthy bank. Alfred stumbled back with them, falling beside Uthred - and they crouched, frozen, aching, beneath the open roots of a tree.

Rocks dug into their backs. Roots clawed at their feet.

The five of them hid in the dark, as the captives were slaughtered, captured, screaming in the black.

_Wait. We just have to wait now. That’s all we have to do._

Hooves thundered near them, men screaming into the black. Alfred pressed against his side, chest heaving, burning warm. 

_One more second, just one more._

They waited for a moment, Danes cursing, shouting nearby. Uthred’s plan was working now – the Danes were following the other captives, the Saxons fleeing into the woods. Horses charged pass the gulley, and though it was so open, so easy to find them, no one looked below, the darkness shrouding them beneath its veil, the ravine swallowing them whole. Beside him, in the dirt, his men held their breaths, frozen in the black. Alfred panted quietly, his shoulder brushing against his.

Uthred could feel his heart pounding, as they waited in the dark. He counted down the seconds, blood roaring in his ears.

No one came looking for them. The Danes surged on. The screams began to fade a little, voices, fires trailing away.

_Good._

They only had moments now, before the Danes came back for a better look, before they figured it out.

“Come on,” he whispered, and still crouched, they began to move further down the gulley, to the left, away from the chaos. Their feet slipped quietly over tangled roots, their backs hunching as they crept.

The gulley stretched on to the east, rocks gashing at their legs. No one spoke as they slinked through the dark, wind rustling through the trees. The voices, screams got softer and softer. Uthred could barely breathe.

“Up here,” he muttered, and they were far enough now, the horses whinnying in the distance. The bank was gentler here – and with a nod, Sithric bounded up, his feet leaping over roots and rocks. He reached the forest floor again, and for a moment, he crouched there, in the dark, head swivelling, watching, listening.

Alfred’s grey robes dragged against the dirt, tearing against the rocks.

Sithric nodded down to them, and Uthred heaved out a sigh.

_Thank the gods, fucking hells-_

He glanced back quickly to his men, to Alfred - and then, with bound hands, he grabbed a hanging root, and pulled himself up to the forest floor. His feet lurched, thick and heavy, the wound stinging at his side. He crouched against a tall, dark tree, and with Sithric, he helped the others up, pulling Alfred back to his side. Their feet rustled against the leaves, the wind howling in the black.

Uthred could see the fires in the distance, torches tearing through the night. Screams, howls echoed up into the dark canopy.

They needed to keep moving. They needed to fucking _run_.

As soon as Osferth lumbered up, they were moving again, Uthred leading, into the dark. They moved as quietly as they could, sprinting over branches and leaves.

They ran and ran, to the east, until the screams felt like they were dreams.

Uthred knew where they had to go now. There was only one place left to go.

“Where are we going?” Alfred panted again, just behind him – and Uthred could hear it now, in the trees, the crashing of the waves.

“ _Hurry_ ,” he breathed, and they darted through the sweeping woods, and onto the rocky beach.

The water opened up before their eyes, the trees falling away. Their feet flew onto the mossy beach, crashing through grass and stones – and in the dark, they started to slow, their breaths panting out into the air. Howls chased them from the woods, but the wind was roaring now, sweeping through their hair. Uthred raised his hand, and they finally stopped, against a small, rocky buff.

“Thank _god_ ,” Finan sighed, and he slumped down onto the ridge. Osferth staggered against the rock, puffing. Alfred sank down too, breathless, to the rock-strewn sands.

Uthred breathed in the cool sea air, the salt flat on his tongue. Up above, they could see the moon again, the sliver of pale gleaming silently. The stars were still hidden, the night indefinitely black – but Uthred could see the waves of the water, rippling gently against the rocks.

Sithric stood by Uthred’s side, looking around, dagger in hand.

“Lord,” the Dane said quietly, and then he was cutting the binds around Uthred’s hands, with a flash of steel. Uthred pulled the ropes away, and the scabs ripped from his skin. Pain clawed down his wrists – but he stretched his arms out anyway, muscles aching.

It was the first time in days that he had been unbound, for more than a few seconds. His legs shook as the pain began to wake throughout his body, his breath short, his nerves frayed.

“Fuck me, I can’t feel my legs,” Finan grumbled as Sithric moved to the king, crouching down to cut his ropes. Uthred kneaded the skin beneath his bleeding right wrist, the grey rag around his arm fluttering in the wind.

“We can’t stay out here,” Osferth murmured, voice almost lost in the gale. Finan muttered a curse.

“Course not,” he grouched, and slumped further back against the rock, “but I reckon those fucks aren’t going to come for us just yet. Is anyone hurt?”

Uthred looked back at Alfred, but the king just shook his head, his face half-hidden in the dark, his hair sweeping in the wind. Sithric cut through Finan’s ropes, as silently as before.

Uthred looked around the beach, as his clothes flapped in the wind. His heart hammered, blood rushing.

_The monk is right._

They couldn’t stay along. All around him, the beach stretched on, through the dark, and though Uthred couldn’t really see much, it wouldn’t take long for the Danes to find them out here, with their torches and arrows. The waves rippled against the black, the water at high tide. The screams trailed away in the breeze, and it was all so very quiet now.

Uthred looked out over the black water, into the endless night. A soft light glowed in the distance, on the right, far away along the shore.

“Is that Maeldun?” Uthred asked, his throat hoarse. He could just about see the smallest flecks of light burning in the west, clustered together, a town fast asleep. Sand and salt scattered with the wind.

“Yes,” Alfred replied, and with a grunt, the king slowly began to rise, leaning back against the ridge, “That’s Maeldun. If we follow the beach straight, we can reach it before light. I don’t think-”

“No,” Uthred breathed, eyes scanning the dark horizon, “No, not Maeldun. We can’t go there.” He turned away from the town’s lights, and towards the darkness on the left. The shore crept away into the dark, lost to the black.

_Where would that take us?_

_Where the fuck are we supposed to go?_

Behind him, Alfred sighed, shifting at the corner of his eye.

“Uthred, where else are we supposed to go?” the king breathed shallowly, his voice a little frayed, “ I told you. There are people there that could help us, that could get help for us-”

“And where do you think the Danes are heading now? _I told you_ ,” Uthred snapped, and he turned around to glare at him now, his breath caught tight in his chest. Alfred narrowed his eyes a little, his freed hands pressing against his gut.

“We don’t know that,” he bit sharply.

“Lord, they’re heading in that direction,” Finan mollified.

“If we can see the lights, then the others, the captives, the Danes, they can see them too,” Uthred said, as the waves whispered through the dark, “They will think that you are heading there. They will kill everyone in that town just to get you back.”

And Alfred didn’t reply at that, not immediately, his blue eyes searing through the dark. His robes fluttered in the wind, almost luminous in the black.

Uthred could feel his gut twist, sweat crawling down his back. The wound at his side ached, splitting red.

_We have to move, fuck, we have to run-_

_But where, where the fuck are we supposed to go?_

Alfred sighed, into the sweeping wind, his breath still too short.

“Then where do we go?” he asked, hand kneading against his stomach.

“We have to go north,” Finan replied, lurching off the ridge.

“Into East Anglia?” Osferth frowned.

A thought suddenly occurred to Uthred, and he couldn’t really hold it back now.

“Thyra, Beocca,” and they had to keep moving, they had to _go_ , but the words were tumbling out of his mouth, into the briny air, “Sithric, what are you doing here?”

The rest of them turned to the Dane now, and Sithric shifted nervously, upon the rocky sands. Howls faded further and further away, beyond the looming trees.

“They’re fine, Lord,” Sithric breathed, and his dark eyes shone through the black, “I tried-”

“I thought I told you to take them back to Coccham,” Uthred frowned, and gods, this wasn’t the time for it, but all of a sudden, he had to know, he had to know _now_.

_Where is Thyra? Beocca? Fuck, how can he even be here?_

“I did,” Sithric blinked, as Finan shuffled, moving towards Uthred, “I mean, I tried. But Beocca-”

“What about Beocca?”

“Lord, maybe we should move first,” Finan said, and he was beside Uthred now, almost between him and Sithric, his eyes darting back to the black trees, “The monk is right, it’s too open here-”

“What happened to Beocca?” Uthred growled, heart pounding wild.

“Nothing, Lord,” Sithric said quickly, eyes wide, “I tried to take them, back to Coccham like you said, but the priest, he, he ordered me back.”

“To find us?” Osferth asked quietly.

Sithric nodded, bare arms pale in the dark.

“I left them at the river, just before Sceaf’s. I gave Beocca my blade, Lord, but he made me turn back, to find you, and the king. I only got there in time to see you taken in the cage.”

“And you followed all the way?” Alfred asked, his voice calmer, breath deeper now.

Sithric nodded again.

“I,I couldn’t free you earlier,” he said, staring only at Uthred, “I tried, Lord, but-”

“But that doesn’t matter,” Finan said, sure and calm, “You got us out. We’re out. Now, we need to run.” He looked back at Uthred then, eyes almost urging – and yes, fuck, he was right, there wasn’t any _time_ for this.

_Fuck, fucking shit-_

Sithric stared at him, shuffling on his feet. Rage, fury burned through the black, choking around Uthred’s throat. 

_How the fuck could he just leave them at the river? We have no idea if they even made it back to Coccham, fuck, fucking shit-_

He tried to swallow it back, the thrashing claws tearing down his chest.

_He was supposed to protect them, but if he hadn’t come for us, we would still be in the cage. He got us out, didn’t he?_

_He got Alfred out._

They didn’t have time for any of this. Uthred didn’t have time to feel anything.

“My son. My wife,” Alfred looked at Sithric, his voice quiet now.

“I don’t know, Lord,” the Dane replied, and the king looked away, to the black waves, his face carefully blank. His hair swept in the dark, in the cool, brackish wind.

Uthred watched as the king kneaded his hand slowly across his gut. Alfred’s face was as stone again, shadows clinging to the pale.

_I can’t do this now. I can’t think about anything else._

He had to get Alfred out of here. He had to keep him safe.

Uthred swallowed back the claws, the wrenching in his gut. He breathed out slowly into the wind.

“You know this land,” he said, to the king. Waves lulled and crashed behind them, gently in the black.

“Mostly from my maps,” Alfred agreed, slowly, looking up at him.

_I have to get him out of here._

Steel gripped around his heart.

“Then you know what’s north from here,” Uthred said, and he moved a little closer to Alfred, peering at him over Finan’s shoulder, “There has to be a town, a village nearby. Somewhere we can hide.”

Alfred blinked at him, for a second – and then, with a breath, he squared his shoulders.

“There’s Witham,” he said, jaw clenching a little, “That much I recall. It’s not too far from here, further inland, up the smaller rivers. It cannot be more than 2, 3 leagues away from Maeldun?”

“How the fuck are we supposed to find _that_ in the dark?” Finan grumbled.

“Nothing on the shore?” Uthred pressed.

“No, no, Maeldun is the only thing on the Blackwater. It’s all marshland, the further east you go,” Alfred said, and he leaned further back against the mossy ledge, as if he couldn’t really stand beneath his own weight. 

Sand and grit bit against Uthred’s skin, bones aching awake.

“Then it has to be Witham,” Finan said, looking at Uthred again, “That’s the only way then.”

“Right, but that would still mean going back into the woods,” Uthred replied, and no, he didn’t like the sound of that at all. He didn’t want to take Alfred and his men back into the woods, back to where the Danes were.

_And yet, fuck, what other choice do we have?_

If this town, Witham, was the only other town nearby, then it was more than likely that Thorrir, the Danes, would eventually head north and search for them there too. They wouldn’t be able to stay long in Witham. They would have to keep moving.

_But I’m thinking two steps ahead now, needlessly._

_I need to focus on getting Alfred somewhere safe first, even if it’s only for a little while._

Witham would have food, new clothes, _weapons._

Sithric was the only one of them now who still had his armour, his blades. If they wanted any chance of getting back to Winchester, then they were going to need supplies. As much, and as soon as they could get them.

_And gods, maybe Alfred is right. Maybe we do need help from Guthrum._

“Sithric,” Uthred breathed, and he looked back to the younger man, half-shrouded in the black, “How many weapons do you-”

And something whooshed in the dark, a sharp, fleeting sound.

Osferth let out a piercing cry.

“Osferth!” Finan yelled – and the woods erupted with a roar, Danes charging out of the black. Arrows arched over their heads, feet pounding against the earth – and the Danes were here, they had found them, steel flashing in the dark.

_No, no, fuck, fuck, fuck-_

Uthred rushed before Alfred, as the king stumbled back.

“Lord!” Sithric cried, and he threw an axe towards him, cutting through the black. An arrow skinned past Uthred’s arm as he grabbed the hilt out of the air.

“Get down!” he roared over his shoulder, terror screaming – and he dodged as a blade cut towards him, rippling past his gut. Uthred hacked the axe up, across the Dane’s neck, and blood spattered in the wind.

_Fuck, nononono-_

Blades tore in every direction. A shield smashed him on his side. Rage, fear burned beneath his skin as he gashed the axe blindly, tearing flesh, ripping leather. He didn’t know where his men were. He could barely see a thing. He slammed his knee against a shield and twisted as a blade tried to rip him in half. 

He couldn’t win this. There was too many of them. 

_Alfred, Alfred, fuck, no-_

Blood spattered into his mouth. He clashed his axe against a rippling blade, and a sword tore at his legs, pain ripping red. Uthred’s feet slipped on the rocky ground, grit gashing against his skin. His fist flew, punching into a bloodied face, blood burning, terror writhing - 

Thorrir bellowed, above the chaos, his voice shattering into the black. 

“Enough!” and Uthred felt his axe rip away from his grip. Hands were grabbing at him now, Danes yelling, cursing wild – and he kicked his feet out blindly, hitting against flesh. 

_Protect him, I have to protect him, Alfred, Alfred-_

A fist smashed into his face, pain, blood wrecking through his skull. He gasped, knees crashing to the ground – and he saw Alfred now, behind the ridge, Thorrir’s blade glinting at his neck. 

_No._

Horror flooded through Uthred’s veins, his gut dropping away. He froze, heart screaming, and hands shoved him down onto the sands, rocks tearing at his cheeks. He looked about frantically, for the others - but in all that chaos, in that gashing, bloody whirl, the fight had ended just as quickly as it had started.

He could see Sithric now, down on his back, an axe hovering over his head. Finan crouched before Osferth, protecting him, a bowman aimed at his chest. The monk writhed away on the ground, moaning, an arrow sticking out of his leg.

The Danes were quiet around them now, blades flashing, feet shuffling. A hand crushed Uthred’s head further onto the ground, bloody sand scraping down his tongue.

_No, no, no fuck no-_

Every single inch of him thrummed with cold black fear. Alfred winced as Thorrir pulled him further back by his head, looming behind the king. The steel gleamed in the night, against Alfred’s neck. 

“Let him go,” Uthred rasped, swallowing sand. Terror grasped around his throat. 

_No, no, gods please, no-_

Alfred stared back at him, panting, face twisted in agony. Thorrir pulled on his head again, stretching his neck back painfully. 

“Is that the one who let you out?” the Dane huffed, voice almost blank as he nodded his head to Sithric. Uthred didn’t answer, none of them did. He watched as Alfred’s hands trembled uselessly at his side, grey robes trailing in the black.

_Please, please, gods please-_

Thorrir stared down at Alfred.

“It was clever, to double back like that,” the Dane rumbled casually, “They did say the Wessex king was clever. Not strong, not fast, but very clever. Do you know much gold you just cost me, Lord?”

Despair howled in Uthred’s chest, dark, writhing black.

_Please, please-_

“Let him go,” he begged again, claws squeezing around his chest.

_Please, please, gods, let him go. Take me, kill me, just let him go._

Silence stretched into the night, as Thorrir ignored him again. Alfred panted quietly as the waves rushed in the dark.

 _Please, please, not him._

_Don’t take him away from me._

For the longest moment, no one spoke, as if frozen in time.

And then, with a sigh, Thorrir lowered his blade, away from Alfred’s neck.

“Take them,” he said, and the Danes were pulling Uthred up now, back onto his feet. Hands wrenched his arms behind him, twisting violently, voices grumbling - and he could see the others being dragged up too, Osferth whimpering, clutching at his leg. Finan cursed up a storm, struggling against the Danes, but there was no point fighting them anymore.

They had lost.

Their one chance.

_Gods, what have I done?_

Alfred stared at him through the dark, as Thorrir released his head. Danes surged around the king, to tie him up again.

_Useless. Pathetic. He’s going to fucking die._

This was his fault. This was his fucking fault. Fate had forged a path for them, the gods had fucking listened – and what had he done with it? Why the fuck had they stopped?

_We should have kept on running. We should have never stopped._

Sithric let out a groan as a Dane punched him in the gut. Ropes wrapped around Uthred’s wrists, pressing into the wounds.

_I should have gone a little further. I should have made us run._

Alfred stared down at his feet, and something hopeless screamed in Uthred’s chest.

_How am I supposed to save him now? What am I supposed to do?_

Black claws grasped through the night, as the waves crashed gently beneath the moon.

_Please, please, gods, please, what am I supposed to do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok lol I hate this chapter, but I tried so I hope you enjoyed it anyway! Yeah, Alfred and Uthred are really just talking at each other right now, not to each other. They are being kind of self-involved, caught up in their own emotions, especially Alfred. They're just lashing their anxieties at each other, because they fucking stupid and need to go to therapy.
> 
> But ok, don't worry, there will be character development there. I do want to be happy and healthy in the end. (Or do I lol)
> 
> Also, sidenote: again, almost everything here, the names, the locations, are historically accurate. Maeldun is currently the town Maldon, Headleage is Hadleigh, etc. I think I got everything right. I did change the landscape of the region a little, to fit the story, but nothing much. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you guys for all your kudos and comments. I really, really appreciate it. Like, they make me so happy, so thank you sooo much. See you next time!


	7. The Ships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL ok that was the weirdest, most stressful week of our lives. I like to think since 2020 is ending, that last week was the climax, and that we are in for a soft epilogue - but lol I ain't holding out for that, my brain is TIRED. (But also, fuck Donald Trump, so)
> 
> Anyway, real world aside, please enjoy the chapter below! I hope it makes your week better!

Uthred could barely think straight anymore.

He was shattered. He was cold.

Dread twisted through his chest, like gashing black claws.

The waves lapped quietly on their right, against the cold, muddy shore. The wind rippled across the bleak waters, wisps of grey beneath the ashen skies – and as they marched on, through the muck, Uthred could taste it, on the flat of his tongue, the cold, the mud, the salty marshes, the grey, quiet dread of the day.

He could no longer feel his toes, not really, ice-cold mud soaking through his boots. His body was sore now, bones aching, feet heavy – but they were still moving, trudging on, reeds crashing around their legs. They hadn’t stopped moving since the break of dawn, and all Uthred wanted to do now was sleep, here, in the mud, in the quiet stirring of the waves.

He was so, so very tired now.

They all had to be.

Before him, Alfred walked quietly, in line with the others, hands bound tight behind his back. His grey robes trembled in the wind, mud soaking through its ends.

_Is this the last I will ever see of him?_

Uthred was too tired, too weak to fight back against the grasping claws.

_Is this the end then? Is this our fate?_

Seagulls squawked as they wheeled overhead.

All around them, the Danes marched silently, horses plodding by their side – and Uthred and his men, and the remaining captives, were in the middle of it all, corralled into a line, walking through the cold wetlands, with hands bound behind their backs. They had left the cage back in the woods, the wheels useless in this mud, and there were too few of them left anyway, the four recaptured Saxons staggering at the back.

The great, wide river flowed gently, on their right, the marshlands, the murky waves stretching out into the sea. In the distance, straight ahead, Uthred could see the endless ocean, pale grey waters rolling languidly out into the deep.

Finan and Sithric were in front of Alfred, slogging on in silence. Behind him, Uthred could hear Osferth lagging, stumbling, slow, his breath short and pained.

_Fuck._

Uthred looked over his shoulder, for a moment, claws tight around his chest, and the monk's face was pale and tight now, his eyes fixed on the slipping ground. He limped on his right leg, before the other Saxon captives, robes dragging through the mud - and Uthred didn't know what he could do, how he could help him anymore.

_Fuck, fuck._

The Danes had removed the arrow last night, from where it had pierced Osferth's calf - they had bandaged him roughly, quickly, blood soaking into the sands. Blood fouled the monk's robes now, the wound bleeding through, dark black on dirty brown. Uthred didn't how bad it was, if sickness had taken to it too.

_Fuck, fucking shit._

He had his own wounds to worry about, his own bruises and cuts – but _fuck,_ what was he thinking? Charging into battle last night, wild, against a horde of Danes? He risked their lives, all for nought.

_Why didn’t we just fucking run?_

Guilt seared as he looked back down the line, cold mud spattering up his legs.

_I could have gotten us to Witham by now._

Alfred stared down into the reedy marsh.

_I could have fucking saved him._

Grief choked down Uthred’s veins.

They were almost at the ships now. As they slogged over the twisting streams, the air wet and foul with the smell of rotting green, Uthred could see them, 2 Dane ships anchored along the coast, just a little further down, near a little beach. They had been able to see them for hours now, the flat marshlands hiding nothing, the dark red and pale white sails swelling with the cold, bitter wind.

Uthred could see figures moving about too, atop the swaying ships. Waves, cold and steely, splashed against the dark wooden hulls. 

It would be minutes before they finally reached it, the shades of men upon the beach - slavers, waiting, in the wind, prepared for trade.

Minutes before they were taken now. Minutes before Alfred was gone.

_That is all I have left now._

_Mere fucking minutes._

Thorrir’s voice rumbled through the wind, like a slow, reaching thunder.

“It’s a pity, you know,” the Dane plodded beside Uthred, through the teeming grass. He had his horse’s reins in his hand, the pale beast slogging unevenly through the brown-green muck.

Uthred didn’t look at him. He didn’t want to speak, to say anything – what the fuck was there to say?

_Useless. Pathetic._

He swallowed back the bitter bile, his gut twisting black. He stared ahead at Alfred’s shoulders, at the tattered grey of his robes.

Thorrir hummed a little, and continued, his strange, twisting accent rolling across the marsh, like tumbling, large boulders.

“You fight well,” he said, reeds dancing in the wind, “You fight like an animal. Desperate, stupid, but stubborn. I could use a man like that with me. You could replace Halldor. All he ever does is complain anyway.”

In front of them, down the line, Finan stumbled over the rocks, a Dane pulling him roughly by the arm. Little brown birds fluttered out from the grass, twittering gently into the grey.

Uthred bit his tongue. He stared at Alfred’s bound hands.

“But then you went and lost my slaves,” Thorrir continued, and he looked out across the water, over the soft, dreary waves, to the other side of the river, the distant, green plains, “I had 24 men to sell, and now I have 9. The others will bring more slaves with them, but it’s still a problem now. You made us lose our gold. You even killed one of my men last night. I should really kill you for it all. I should take your head.”

“Then do it. Kill me,” Uthred gritted, blood burning through his veins. He looked up to the hulking Dane now, rage stirring, cold gnawing through his skin.

Thorrir looked back at him, his long, dark hair bristling in the wind. A sneer, slow and cold, began to twist at the corner of lips. 

“Is that what you want then, boy? To die? Do you fear the slaver’s whip that much?”

Fury stabbed through Uthred’s gut, like blades of cold black steel.

_Fuck you._

He clenched his jaw, teeth gashing red.

_Fuck you, I’ll kill you, I’ll rip you to shreds-_

He was so tired, so fucking exhausted, and he just wanted to rage, to kick, to scream.

_This is my fault, my fucking fault, fuck-_

Everything inside of Uthred writhed and burned, and as they lumbered slowly on, through the quiet grey, he swallowed it back, forced it down, the black, churning waves.

_Useless. Pathetic._

Thorrir let out a sigh.

“Or maybe it’s not your life you fear for,” the Dane looked away again, his sword clinking by his side, “You know there’s no glory in a slave’s death. Perhaps you wish to die by your blade, boy. Perhaps it is Valhalla that you seek.”

And somehow, even now, with the ships’ sails flapping closer and closer with each staggering step, the words barely made any sense to Uthred. He didn’t care about that right now. He didn’t care what the Fates had planned for him.

_Why does it matter what happens to me? I don’t fucking care what they do to me._

Before him, Alfred plodded into a puddle, mud splattering up to his hips. Uthred watched as the king swayed for a second, feet slipping across the uneven ground.

_I want to hold him, to touch him, to take him away from all of this, fuck-_

Behind them, Osferth breathed another whimper, short and pained. Sithric and Finan trudged quietly ahead, shoulders slumped.

_I should have fucking saved them all._

Thorrir spoke again, his feet thumping heavily through the marsh.

“Or maybe that’s not it,” and his voice was dark and low now, like the heavy groans of an ancient tree, “Maybe you’re not really a Dane. Perhaps you’re just a traitor, a Christian, like the rest of them.”

“What do you _want_ from me?” Uthred grunted, his throat as rough as sand. Thorrir looked at him again, eyes cold and grey as the lapping waves.

“Nothing,” he replied, and the birds chirped away, “Nothing I already have. I just do not understand why a Dane like you would choose a Saxon king over his own kind.”

Uthred did not reply. He clenched his teeth shut, shoving back the words. His eyes fell on Alfred’s back again, and he said nothing, did nothing, mud soaking into his skin.

_What the fuck does he want from me? What is the point of this?_

Thorrir kept on speaking, eyes drifting away across the river.

“You could have run,” the Dane said, “You could have fled without them. But all I had to do was put a blade to your king’s neck, and you grovel in the sand like a worm.”

Uthred swallowed back the rage, the burning black choking down his throat.

_Don’t say anything. Don’t give him anything._

Alfred’s back straightened a little, reeds dancing around his legs.

“I have seen Danes sell their blades to Saxon kings, a hundred different ways,” Thorrir huffed, “Fools, traitors. Christian whores. But they never for beg for them. They never plead for their lives, like you did.”

Claws wrenched through Uthred’s chest.

“What is it then?” Thorrir asked, calmly, “What is so special about this man? Why would a Dane like you care so much about some little Christian king?”

And Uthred couldn’t speak anymore, his tongue frozen in his mouth. His heart twisted in his chest, plunging into the black.

_No._

He wasn’t going there. No, he wasn’t going to think about it at all. He wasn’t going to let Thorrir fuck with his head, to whatever end, because the _why_ of this, of everything didn’t fucking matter-

_It doesn’t matter why, why I need to save him-_

_That’s not the fucking point-_

Before him, Alfred’s back was rigid now, straight as an arrow – and he must have heard it all, every stupid, slithering word spilling out of Thorrir’s mouth. The king stared ahead, without a flinch, hands clenching tight behind his back, and Uthred could feel the wrath burn, scorching down his own veins.

_Fucking hells._

What was Thorrir trying to do? What was the point of this? What was he trying to say, to imply, because fuck him, _fuck him-_

Uthred breathed in the sharp, foul air, his heart thundering in his chest. Beside him, Thorrir didn’t wait for his reply. He didn’t seem to want it. He just stared away, tugging on his horse’s reins, his dark hair wavering in the bitter wind.

_He already has us. He’s already won. What more does he fucking want?_

Uthred stared ahead, to the billowing sails. He breathed out into the cold, bleak wind, his rage howling red.

_Fuck them. Fuck them all._

_I’m going to kill them all._

No one said another word as they crossed the final stretch. Thorrir stayed silent by his side now, as the seagulls called into the wind.

_Fuck him._

The quiet began to break.

As they neared the ships, Uthred began to hear voices, low and rough, chattering out across the waves. The reeds thinned a little by little, the mud, the mulch giving way to more rocks and sands – and then, they were walking out of the grass and onto a little beach, the sands dark and half-drowned. Moss and algae stretched out into the waters, the air briny and sour, and beyond the shore, Uthred could see the ships clearly now, bobbing along in the waves.

The tide was high, the noon sun a pale circle gleaming in the leaden skies. The beach was small, and there were 4 men there, standing rough and drab.

 _Slavers._

There was no doubt about it. Those were the men that were going to own them now.

As they approached the waiting slavers, feet sinking into wet sand, Uthred stared at them, his heart in his mouth, and –

_Fuck._

For a moment, for just a second, he thought he saw Sverri, his old slaver, standing among those men. He thought he saw his sunburned face smirking at him through the pale.

_No, fuck-_

Uthred’s heart pounded, like a striking hammer. Blood roared in his ears, like the sea. 

The memories crashed through his mind, like a wave, the ship rocking beneath his blistered feet. He could feel the whip again, tearing bloody through his skin.

_No, stop-_

Halig was screaming somewhere in the distance, howling, sobbing, wailing in Uthred’s arms. Seawater, cold and black, rushed down his throat, the ship shaking violently, the skies roiling, black as night, Thor’s hammer crashing, waves roaring, men screaming, white, endless water soaring into the skies –

_Stop-_

Uthred let out a shaky breath. He blinked, rapidly, and the images, the memories broke away, like the surf upon the shore. His feet stumbled through the wet sand, pebbles crunching beneath his boots.

His heart clenched and wrenched and howled.

_No, not now._

He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have time for memories now.

“Set them down,” Thorrir barked, into the wind – and without another word, Uthred and the others were pushed down onto the sands, hands shoving roughly at their backs. Uthred felt his feet stumble beneath him, and he staggered down onto his knees, pain jolting up his legs.

Alfred tumbled down beside him, Osferth wincing on the right, and soon they were all kneeling, on the sodden sands, the Danes towering all around.

Sithric and Finan kneeled beside Alfred, knees sinking into the ground. The other captives, the four Saxons, kneeled on Osferth’s right, heads bowed, silent, shoulders slumped in despair.

All around them, the Danes murmured among themselves, almost impatiently. Uthred watched as Thorrir and Halldor, and a couple of other Danes, gave their horses’ reins over to the others, the beasts shuffling uneasily upon the sands.

_No._

It was time now. It was happening now.

As Thorrir and his chosen three trudged towards the shoreline, towards the waiting slavers, Uthred let the grief take hold, claws choking around his throat. He didn’t know what to say anymore. He didn’t know what to do. He stared at the dark, rocking ships, as Alfred panted quietly by his side.

_My fault. Mine._

They knelt in silence, watching, as their fate unfurled before their eyes. Thorrir and his men reached the slavers, along the sinking shore, and they began to talk, quietly, too far away to hear.

Seagulls screeched as they sailed above. Sorrow whispered among the waves.

Uthred spoke, lowly, softly, into the salty grey.

“If I,” he faltered, heart wrenching black, “If I try to distract them, to fight, you can run. You can take the monk, and you can try-”

“ _No_ ,” Alfred breathed, quietly, his eyes staring out into the bleak waves, “No, Uthred. That’s not going to work.”

“Lord-”

“No. Stop. There’s nothing left to do now. We’ve already lost.”

And Uthred felt the grief, the rage, the pain howl through his veins.

_Please, no please._

A sob caught in his throat. It couldn’t end like this. No, he couldn’t give up, not even now, not even with these ships here, because, because –

_I can’t-_

_No, I can’t-_

“There has to be a way,” he whispered down onto the ground, despair clawing through his chest. Alfred stared at Thorrir’s distant back, his grey robes wavering about the soggy sands.

“You can buy your freedom back from these men, Uthred,” he said, quiet and calm, “In time, if you stay alive, if you work, if you escape, you can be free again. You have to be free again, Uthred. You _have_ to come back.”

“I can’t let them take you-”

“You have no choice,” and the wind howled like a shade, like a wraith across the waves, “My son. He will need you now. You have to find a way to come back for Edward, to stand by his side. You will have to protect him now, Uthred.”

Osferth moaned quietly, into the sweeping grey. The Danes around them began to meander about, idling, as Thorrir and the slavers kept on talking.

_No._

Uthred couldn’t do this. He couldn’t leave him, no. Tears began to burn in his eyes, and no, no, he couldn’t cry, he couldn’t, he didn’t-

_Stop talking like you’re going to die. You’re not, you’re not, please-_

He looked at Alfred now, by his side, hair trembling in the wind.

“I can’t let them take you,” he whispered, claws tearing through his chest. His voice threatened to break, to crash against the jagged rocks.

_Please._

Alfred looked back at him, his stony face revealing nothing at all. He was silent for a moment, blue eyes watching, completely calm – and then, in a breath, it was as if something inside the king began to crumble too.

As the wind howled, as the river sang, something _soft_ flickered across Alfred’s face. Something gentle. Something almost kind.

Uthred’s heart panged.

“You don’t have a choice, Uthred,” and the king’s eyes darted all about his face, as if looking for something there. They stared at each other in silence, and all Uthred could do was try as hard as he could to memorize every line of his face, every wrinkle, every curve, every fleck of white in Alfred’s dark beard.

He wanted to stay there forever. He wanted to hold him now.

_Don’t._

_Please don’t._

_Please don’t leave me now._

Alfred looked away, towards the lapping waves. 

_Please. Please._

Thorrir was marching back now, dark beard swinging in the wind. Behind him, the slavers were moving, voices rising into the air – three of them ran out to the shoreline, into the icy waves, to the two small boats bobbing about in the surf. They began to pull the skiffs closer, as Thorrir and his men trudged back up, and it was time now, it was really time, it was the end.

_No-_

“Get them up!” Thorrir commanded, and hands hauled them to their feet again, Osferth crying out in pain. Uthred felt the wound on his side stretching, pain aching red, but his heart was thundering now, panic blinding, surging up his throat.

_No, no, wait-_

He had to try. Fuck, he had to do _something,_ he couldn’t just let them take him-

_Nonono-_

His body moved without thinking, his mind racing wild. Uthred looked around frantically to the others, to Alfred’s widening eyes – and he thrashed, wild, shoving away from cold, meaty hands. He tried to swing his arms behind him, heart pounding, stones scattering – and a hand seized him by the back of his neck, nails digging like talons into skin.

“Stop moving, you fucking shit _,_ ” a Dane growled behind him, and another punched him in the gut. Pain exploded, air shattering out of his lungs.

_No-_

“Give him to me,” Thorrir snapped, closing the distance, his face now red and murderous. He stomped through the sands, the slavers, Halldor trailing behind him – and then, without a pause, he grabbed Alfred, hauling him forward by his arm.

“Wait!” Uthred rasped, his chest crushing. Thorrir pulled the king around, and shoved him forward, towards the mucky shoreline. Alfred looked back over his shoulder, eyes wide, panicking – but Thorrir just pushed him on, towards the boats, men parting in their wake.

_No, wait-_

The Danes shoved Uthred violently, horses whickering, hands pulling rough. His feet staggered, heart pounding – and the Danes were hurling them all forward now, down the half-sodden beach, hands brutal, voices vile. Uthred and his men, and the other captives, stumbled through the sand, behind Thorrir, behind Alfred, towards the lapping waves.

_No, no-_

“Get off me, you cunts!” Finan snarled, writhing back against the pushing hands. Halldor rammed Uthred brutally, feet lurching across the sands – but he didn’t care, his eyes trained only on Alfred as Thorrir dragged him into the river.

_What the fuck?_

His heart thrashed wild, blood racing red.

_What, are they taking Alfred to the ships too?_

Beneath Uthred, the ground turned into black sludge, sucking around his boots. Cold, briny waves broke against his legs, as the Danes drove them all into the river, icy, grey water soaking through clothes, lapping up to their shins. 

Water bit like ice, gnawing, stinging through skin, into bone. Algae, foul and dark, snaked around Uthred’s legs as they wadded through the waves, feet sinking into the mud below. 

_Fuck, fuck-_

The boats bobbed in front of them, thudding against the muddy bank beneath. Osferth suddenly slipped on the sinking ground, tumbling, splashing into the shallow.

_What is going on? Where are they taking him?_

In front of them, Thorrir hauled Alfred up into one of the fishing boats, a little too roughly water pouring off the king’s robes as he climbed awkwardly, shakily onto the rocking skiff. Danes pulled Osferth out of the water, the monk splashing, gasping sharp. Hands shoved at Uthred’s back again, and he was scrambling onto the other boat now, unable to grasp anything with his hands bound behind his back. 

The boat pitched as he struggled clumsily down onto his seat. The others lumbered in after him, Sithric, Osferth, a Saxon captive, limbs jostling, water splattering. The Danes dragged Finan and the other three prisoners towards Thorrir’s boat – and within seconds, they were all crammed onto the skiffs, the Danes, the slavers climbing in, their steel clanging in the wind.

Uthred stared at Alfred on the other boat, his dark hair sweeping past his face.

_Why didn’t they just leave him on the shore? What the fuck are they doing?_

“Start rowing,” Halldor grouched, blonde hair whipping - and with rolling sighs, the Danes on Uthred’s boat began to row, the oars dipping and splashing into the icy waves. Alfred’s, Thorrir’s skiff began to move too, and the two boats slogged their way through the gentle surf, towards the waiting ships.

_What the fuck-_

This didn’t make sense anymore.

As the boats rowed out towards the swaying ships, wood creaking and groaning with the waves, Uthred stared at Thorrir, mind whirling wild – because this, this didn’t make any sense. Why the fuck was Alfred here? Why are they taking him too?

Uthred thought they would have left him back on the beach. He looked over his shoulder now, to the receding shoreline – and there were still Danes there, left behind with the horses and supplies, hooves clomping into wet sand.

If they were selling Uthred and the others, but not Alfred, then why the fuck were they taking him to the ships too?

_Is Thorrir paying these slavers to sail them up to Northumbria?_

_There are two ships – is one here to sell us away, to fuck knows where, and the other to take Alfred up the coast?_

It would be faster, for Thorrir, if he already had a destination in mind. Instead of trudging through the woods, through the rain and muck, he could just sail Alfred up there. He wouldn’t have to worry about Wessex, or Mercians chasing after the king.

Alfred could be in Northumbria in a matter of days.

_Fuck, fuckfuckfuck-_

Uthred’s heart thundered, Sithric jostling at his side. His feet were soaking cold.

_What the fuck does it mean? Is it good? Is this worse?_

He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He was so completely helpless.

_Useless. Pathetic._

The ships loomed above them now, red and white sails billowing against the pale grey skies. The two packed fishing boats stirred towards the smaller of the two, the maroon sails flapping, the dark wooden hull groaning. As they neared it, Uthred could see it better, the dangling ropes, the tall, soaring mast, the dark-clad figures scurrying about the deck, voices crashing over the waves. Shields, of bright yellow and black lines, adorned the shallow sides. A carved wooden dragonhead snarled upon the stem, with sharp gleaming fangs. 

It was a longship, slightly battered and old, so unlike the slave ship from all those years ago. Beside it, the bigger ship swayed beneath its white sails – and Uthred realized quite suddenly that it had been meant for the rest of the Saxons slaves, now dead in the woods or lost in the trees.

_But why are they taking us to the longship then? That can’t be the slave ship._

_Why the fuck is Alfred here?_

The two small boats pulled up to the longship, men swarming, hollering beneath the sails. The skiffs rocked precariously beneath their feet as they began to embark, ropes fastening the boats to the ship.

Thorrir and Alfred were the first to board, the Dane hoisting up the king over the low hull, as if he weighed nothing at all. Finan stumbled up after Alfred, and soon hands were pulling Uthred up over the hull too, his feet scrambling against the sleek wooden sides. He staggered onto the deck with a heavy thud, Sithric and Osferth right behind.

_Fuck._

Uthred froze, as he caught his breath, the ship rocking beneath his feet. All around him, across the wide, low ship, Danes moved and busied, feet thumping against the deck. There had to be at least 20 of them there, tall, weathered men, readying the sails, preparing the oars, moving the crates and supplies. There were other slaves there too, on the ship, ropes tying them to the middle oars – Saxon men, from the looks of it, faces dark with grime.

The ship groaned beneath them, wood scraping, water slapping. Men shoved Uthred again, hard, bitter hands – and he was tumbling down beside Alfred now, against the left hull.

The king was already sitting there, before the rowing benches, blue eyes looking at Uthred, wide and confused. Voices crashed as the Danes shoved the others down beside them, Finan, Sithric, Osferth and the four Saxon captives crashing down to the damp deck.

_Fuck, fuck-_

Uthred’s heart slammed against his ribs. His wound rippled on his side, tearing red. He heaved himself upright, his shoulder pressing against Alfred’s.

“What the fuck is happening?” Finan hissed, as he tried to right himself from his tumble, his arms bent awkwardly behind his back. Beside him, Osferth leaned against the ship’s side, face wet and pale with pain.

“I don’t know,” Uthred replied quietly, cold gripping around his bones. A shiver wrecked through Alfred’s body, his shoulder trembling a little against Uthred’s.

“Lord, these men are not slavers,” Sithric whispered, eyes darting about, like a wary prey – and gods, Uthred realized that he was right. It didn’t make any sense now.

He looked about the bustling ship, at the hardened, wind-swept men that surrounded them, barking at each other. No, this wasn’t the right. This didn’t feel right.

When Sverri had taken him and Halig years ago, he had only had a few other slavers with him on the ship, a couple of Danes for enforcement and endless slaves for sale. There were Saxon slaves on this ship now too, Uthred could see that – but these men, these Danes, they were all wrong.

Uthred stared at the rough, bearded faces, at sharp axes tied to belts, at light, leather armours.

_No, this isn’t a slave ship. These men aren’t fucking slavers._

Cold, callous eyes glanced at him, steel clinking in the wind.

_Raiders. Warriors. Men like Thorrir and Halldor._

None of this made any sense.

_Why would they take us here?_

Uthred looked over the wooden hull, for a second, to the larger ship rocking beside them, white sails flapping.

_That has to be the slave ship. Why hasn’t he just sold us to them yet?_

Alfred panted quietly beside him, wet mucky robes strangling around his folded legs.

_What the fuck is going on?_

In front of them, Thorrir stood tall, almost towering over everyone else. A tall Dane, draped in furs and with a fair, chiseled face conversed him with now, quietly, Thorrir slapping the younger man warmly on his shoulder.

Uthred could see the slavers again, one staying with the boats, the other three boarding the ship, grubby, lightly armoured men. They stood out, clearly enough, among these leather- clad Danes, tanned faces suddenly uneasy – they moved up to Thorrir’s side, quickly, the waves lapping in the wind.

Thorrir turned away from the Dane in front of him, and back towards the slavers, his lips thinning into a cold, flat line.

“These the lot then?” One of the slavers spoke, a grubby, dark-haired man. He scowled sourly up at Thorrir, and Uthred had to strain to hear them, the creaking of the ship, the bustling of the men drowning near everything.

Beside him, Uthred could tell that his men, Alfred were all listening too, the king shivering again as the cold wind swept. One of the Saxon captives with them peered out too, through his knotted hair.

“Yes, 10. Just like I said,” Thorrir rumbled, and he waved his hand to the rest of the ship. The dark-haired slaver followed his gaze, his scowl twisting – and Uthred realized that they weren’t looking at their group at all, but behind them, at the rows of oars, at the other slaves bound already to the ship.

_What?_

“These are fresher,” the slaver complained, tossing an errant hand towards Uthred’s group, his voice grating through the wind, “No, no, you promised me more slaves, Thorrir. Fresh slaves-”

“And I already said that more are coming, Birgir,” the large Dane snapped, face darkening, “For now, you will take these slaves. You will make do. My men will arrive in a matter of days, with the rest of my slaves. You will pay them the rest of the gold then. Just like we agreed.”

Uthred frowned at Thorrir’s words, his brow furrowing.

_Does he mean the other slaves from our camp? What in hells is going on?_

Further down the ship, among the benches, Halldor began to untie the slaves there, his braided blonde hair dancing about his back. Dark red sails whipped above, as the wind picked up its speed.

“You told me you would get me Saxon slaves,” the slaver, Birgir, spat. 

“These _are_ Saxon slaves,” Thorrir rumbled, nose flaring wide, “We got them from Northumbria, weeks ago. They can row, they are strong-”

“I want these ones,” Birgir pointed to Uthred and his group, and he pushed up defiantly against Thorrir’s bulky frame, “I don’t want your _used_ shit.”

Thorrir glowered, unnervingly still, face dark and red.

“They are not for sale,” he growled, every inch of him bristling with cold, black rage. He scowled down at the smaller man, and for a second, they just glared at each other, furious, locked in a silent, heated battle.

_What?_

Uthred’s mind whirled, his heart thundering on.

_No, that doesn’t make any sense. What?_

“What does he mean, that we’re not for sale?” Alfred whispered, his hot breath brushing against Uthred’s cheek. His shoulder pressed firmly, as if he was trying to soak in as much heat as he could from Uthred’s body.

_Focus._

Uthred breathed in the salty sea air, willing his mind to make sense of all of it.

_Are they not selling us? Any of us?_

Thorrir and the slaver held their glares, the Danes still hustling around.

_Why? What is going on? Are they not taking Alfred away?_

In the grey, something dangerous bloomed in Uthred’s chest, something brittle, desperate, frayed.

_Gods, did Thorrir change his mind? Was he lying the entire time?_

Hope fluttered against his ribs, like the wild wings of a jay.

_Is Alfred staying with me? Gods, they’re not taking him away?_

Before them, Birgir the slaver finally blinked, his shoulders sinking in defeat – he stepped back, sullen, and snapped an order to his men, sharp and harsh. Feet thumped against the deck as the slavers moved towards the oars, to the other slaves, hands grabbing at hanging ropes.

The exchange took less than a minute, slaves shuffling, heads bowed, faceless, wretched things. The slavers pulled their new acquisitions back to the boats, bobbing against the ship.

Uthred let the hope take hold, the furl of gold surging up his throat.

_Gods, please, please._

With one last scowl to Thorrir, Birgir finally turned and followed his men, the slavers pushing the Saxons over the hull. Ropes were untied, splashing into the waves – and then they were gone, paddling back to their own ship.

_Gods._

Relief coursed through Uthred’s veins, as the boats rowed out of sight.

_Alfred’s staying. We’re staying. Gods, fuck, fuck-_

“What the fuck?” Finan muttered, glancing back to Uthred.

“What is this?” Alfred called out, loud and clear, eyes trained only on Thorrir. Some of the other Danes looked at him now, surprised, irritated – but Thorrir did not even bother to look back, his shoulders easing as the tension dissipated in the air.

The large Dane looked at his men, and he spoke now, voice breaking through, face cold and stern.

“Get them to the oars. Ready to sail,” he ordered, tersely - and Danes pulled them up to their feet again, the deck rolling beneath. Shouts, voices crashed through the air as hands shoved them back to the rowing benches, feet stumbling. 

“Wait, fuck, where are you-” Finan yelped, panting, a Dane hauling him by the back of his tunic. Osferth cried as men hoisted him up, his leg limping, tripping around his sodden robes. 

“This one’s damaged, Thorrir,” the Dane hauling Osferth yelled, over his shoulder, voices crashing through the wind. 

“He can still row,” the tall, handsome Dane near Thorrir answered, voice thick with that strange accent– and it was chaos now, men surging, sails billowing, feet thumping against the wood. 

Hands pushed Uthred down onto a low rowing bench, in the middle of the ship, an oar stabbing across. Sithric tumbled down beside him, dark eyes darting anxiously.

Uthred could feel a blade cut through the ropes behind his back. Pain raced, bloody red, as Danes wrenched his arms to the front and tied his hands loosely to the oars. Another Dane did the same to Sithric, Osferth collapsing in the bench in front of them. Finan was tied beside the monk now, muttering foul, and Alfred-

_Gods, they’re really not taking him away._

A Dane shoved Alfred onto the seat in front of Finan and Osferth, lashing him to an oar too. Men began to take their places among the rowing pews, pressing on every side.

_What the fuck is happening?_

“Is that…” the tall Dane said, still standing in the front with Thorrir, his voice somehow carrying above the din. He nodded his head at Alfred, the king pressing against the hull.

“Yes. Let him row,” Thorrir grunted, and turned away, to the head of the ship. Ropes pulled on sails, dark red blustering in the grey. 

_What the fucking is happening?_

A thousand thoughts raced through Uthred’s mind.

_Why didn’t they sell us? Why are we here? Where are they taking us-_

“Row, you fucks!” the tall Dane yelled, almost cheerfully, and the oars began to move, in tandem, wood groaning through the ship. The Dane beside Sithric took pace, pushing at their shared oar – and Uthred’s hands moved instinctively, onto the wood, arms heaving without a thought.

Water crashed, spattering, wood surging through the waves. The ship began to stir backwards, away from the slave ship.

All of Uthred’s men were rowing too, arms heaving, backs bucking. One of the Saxon slaves rowed beside Finan, hands slipping about the wood. The tall Dane yelled out a rhythm.

“Heave! Heave!” And Alfred pushed at his oar, grey robes tangled beneath him, hair whipping dark.

_Where the fuck are they taking us?_

Uthred stared at Alfred’s rolling back.

_I have him._

Gold writhed in his chest, dread, fear, hope twisting, everything a mess.

_I have Alfred, gods, I have him now-_

_But where, where the fuck are they taking us?_

Uthred’s arms burned as he pushed the oar, blood racing, mind whirling. Alfred’s grey rag fluttered around his arm.

_What the fuck is happening?_

As they rowed, the shoreline pulled away, the murky marshes, the green woods and plains. The ship began to turn, a Dane stirring from the back – and the river flowed on now, past the large slave ship, the grey sea painting the horizon, whispering, calling in the wind.

_What is going to happen now?_

Uthred stared at Thorrir, like a statue upon the bow.

_What the fuck does he want from us?_

The ship rowed down the river, and out into the endless sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, I know this chapter was a bit plot-heavy, but it was necessary. I am dying to write more Uthred/Alfred scenes, but we got to slow burn this bitch so please be patient with me! 
> 
> Again, I have tried to make everything as historically accurate as I could. Location, environment is all mostly accurate. I added in part in Chapter 5 to show that Uthred noticed Thorrir's slightly different accent from the start - lol my bad.
> 
> Lastly, thank you for all your kudos and comments! I know its a slow-going guys, but I really, really appreciate you all. You give me so much motivation to write! Please stay safe out there. Please wash your hands, and wear a mask. And again, until the end of time, fuck Donald Trump. 
> 
> (I'm not going to apologise for being political lol. That boy ain't right.)


	8. The Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, I'm really sorry this took so long, but this is a biggg one and so emotional, so please enjoy!

Uhtred could feel the salt of the water, the chill of the wind gash into his wounds.

The cut on his side was still struggling to heal, the pain constant and sore, and as he heaved his arms up and down, as he rowed along with the others, Uhtred could feel the scabs rip and bleed, warm blood trailing down his icy skin, soaking dark through his damp tunic. The wound on his neck itched something fierce as the salt bit into his skin – but none of it mattered, not really, not now. It didn’t matter how much he hurt.

_There’s no way to fight. There’s nowhere to go._

_We’re trapped on this fucking ship._

Beneath them, beneath their wet, frozen feet, the sea churned like a waking storm, waves breaking against the wooden hull like the bloody crash of beasts. Thunders rumbled in the far distance, grey clouds slashing at the horizon. The dark red sail fluttered in the gale, as the oars ripped through the frothy waves.

They had been rowing for hours now, since the break of dawn, since the storm began to chase them from the south. The sea was cold today, icy and dark, the skies an endless grey.

_It’s always cold now. Every second, every breath._

_There’s nothing here wind and waves._

All around Uhtred, about the creaking ship, the Danes rowed and heaved together, the benches full of jostling arms, water spattering over the sides. There was no need now for them to row, not with the wind in their sail, not with the howl of the gale – but the oars still crashed, and the wet wood slipped beneath Uhtred’s tired hands. Voices rang through the frosty wind, Danes chattering, amused somehow as they rowed. Uhtred’s arms burned as he pulled and pushed, his belly grouching, clawing for food. 

He hadn’t eaten a thing since yesterday, the cold gnawing to the bone. None of his men, even Alfred had eaten – and as the deck lurched beneath their feet, Uhtred watched as his men rowed with the Danes too, backs stooped, arms weary, heads damp from the tossing, cold waves.

Sithric rowed quietly beside him, his armor long gone. The dark kohl around his eyes was smudged now, smeared down his pale cheeks. Finan heaved in front of the young Dane, shoulders wet and weary – and beside him, sharing his oar, Osferth slumped against the side, his arms rowing feebly.

Beyond the monk, just in front of him, Alfred rowed on without a word, his grimy, grey robes half-drenched from the icy spray. Uhtred watched as his dark head bobbed with the heave of the oars, his grey arms dragging, his shoulders rolling, his soft hair whipping away.

That was all Uhtred had been doing, really, for the past few hours. Stare at Alfred, worry about his men, as they rowed against the crashing waves. His mind was dull, but it whirled, and wracked, tossing like the icy sea.

He couldn’t stop thinking. He couldn’t stop stewing, his body cold and fatigued beyond means. There was nothing else he could do but think and think, his throat dry and coarse as grit.

_There has to be something. Something left to do._

_I can’t just sit here and do nothing._

His wounds ached, like tearing claws.

_What the fuck am I going to do?_

It had been two days since they left England, since they last saw the green woods, the distant hills fading away into the grey. There was nothing around them now, nothing but the endless sea, dark blue icy water stretching out in every single direction. They were heading north, maybe northeast, Uhtred could tell by the stars at night – but to where, and to what end, he still had no fucking clue. He had no idea where they were.

Why would they go so far from the coast, if the Danes had only meant to take them up to Northumbria? What was the point of any of this?

_Where the fuck are we going?_

Icy water crashed against the side, spattering against Uhtred’s skin. Alfred’s grey rag fluttered around his arm, whipping wild in the wind.

_What the fuck am I going to do?_

A voice finally cried out from the prow.

“Alright, break!” And all about the ship, the Danes broke out into groans and sighs of relief. Oars thumped against the deck, men grumbling, as they began to pull the long blades back into the ship. Wood groaned, freezing water streaming off the oars.

_Thank the gods._

Uhtred didn’t know how much longer he could have rowed. His shoulders were as stiff as stone. As he pushed his oar against the side, just like all the others, the Danes around him began to rise, moving about the ship with ease, feet thundering upon the deck. They gabbed louder, laughing, mocking as they climbed over dark, sleek benches. Their heavy furs swung about in the wind – and as Uhtred sat there, staring at them, shivering in his too-thin clothes, not one of them looked at him, nor at his men. It was as if they didn’t exist at all.

_Thank the gods for that, at least._

Being invisible right now was better than anything else. Uhtred would take being ignored and unseen, over whips and chains and screams. No one had touched them since they set sail. No one had even really looked at them.

_Except for Alfred._

Uhtred’s gut churned.

_They’re looking at him again._

As the maroon sail billowed above their heads, pushing the ship through Aegir’s domains, the Danes stole glances at the king, watching him out of the corner of their eyes. Men sprawled against the wooden sides now, huddling together, red-rimmed eyes peeking at Alfred, unsure.

Only a few of the Danes had come with Thorrir from land, Halldor throwing over black scowls, Einar ignoring them. The rest of the Danes had come with the longship, hadn’t taken Alfred from his camp – they peeked at him, curiously, like gossiping mongers at a stall.

It didn’t take much to guess why they kept looking at Alfred, and only him.

_Somehow, they must have found out that he’s a king._

And gods, did that make Uhtred’s gut twist, claws crushing around his chest.

_They won’t hurt him, no they can’t-_

Finan suddenly broke through his reverie.

“I’m going to freeze my balls off,” he hissed, a shiver trembling through his body, “I know it. I fucking know it. This is definitely how I fucking die.” The Irishman spoke as discreetly as he could now, turning his face slightly back to Uhtred. The wind moaned and groaned so loud that no one could possibly hear them.

In front of Finan and Osferth, Alfred turned a little back too, inconspicuously, tired eyes looking at them silently. A Saxon slave had rowed beside the king, one of the captives from their cage, the man now silent on the bench, head bowed, half-drenched – the other Saxons were probably somewhere else on the ship, behind Uhtred.

_Not that I care. I cannot care._

He didn’t have it in him to worry about strangers now.

Uhtred looked at Alfred, at his weary face, his skin gaunt and wet beneath the cold, leaden skies. Blue eyes met his, for a second, and then flickered away, down to the pitching deck.

_At least he’s alive. At least he’s here._

Unease coiled through Uhtred’s chest.

“At least it’s not winter,” Sithric said, his teeth chattering a little. Finan rubbed his hands together for warmth, and threw back a black scowl.

“You think my balls give a shit? They’re still going to shrivel off,” the bruise on his cheek, from the fight on the beach, burned dark and angry upon his skin, “Why can’t they give us some fucking furs, huh? Some food?”

“I mean, we are their prisoners-”

“Oh really? _Really_? God, I didn’t know. I couldn’t have guessed. No, tell me more, you little shit. What else do you know?”

Osferth spoke into the rushing wind.

“Shouldn’t we have reached Northumbria by now, Lord?” he mumbled, his breath short and faint. Finan grumbled beneath his breath, but the monk was looking at Uhtred now, his skin as pale as the ashen skies. He huddled upon his seat, shivering, burrowing into his stained, wet robes.

Uhtred stared out into the cold black waves, to the dark, distant thunderheads. He rubbed at his wrists, at where the ropes used to be, skin sore and aching red. 

“Who said we’re going to Northumbria?” he replied quietly, waves battering, lashing cold as ice. 

For a moment, they were silent, the Danes gabbing all around, Halldor glowering at them - and then Alfred spoke, quietly, for what felt like the first time in hours.

“You said we were headed north,” the king looked at Uhtred, his eyes stony and cold. His voice was still a little winded from all the rowing, and his face, his cheeks were damp from the spray, droplets gleaming in his dark hair, trailing down his pale skin.

Uhtred’s heart clenched, for just a second. Alfred looked almost small and frail on his bench, too far – and all Uhtred wanted to do was touch him again, to climb over, to shield, to warm, to protect him against all those wary eyes.

_Why is he so far away from me?_

He didn’t like how cold Alfred looked. Uhtred shuddered as the wind tore at his hair. He had to focus now, he had to answer him.

“North, northeast,” he muttered, staring back at the stony king, “If we were headed to Northumbria, we would have seen the coast by now. They wouldn’t have sailed out this far.”

“But that means nothing, Uhtred,” Alfred replied, and he twisted his body a little more towards him, “Perhaps they are waiting-”

“For what?” Uhtred shook his head, “We’re far too east. We have been, since last night. If they wanted to take us to Northumbria, lord, we would have at least gone west by now.”

As a large, icy wave crashed against the ship, wood groaning, Danes laughing into the wind, Alfred frowned, his brow creasing, his face weary and tight.

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” he bit, as the water spattered over the sides. Frustration flared in Uhtred’s chest.

“When? When exactly could I have told you anything?” he snapped, “We’ve been rowing all morning. Would you have liked me to shout it to you as we rowed?” Alfred’s jaw tightened a little, his blue eyes burning bright.

“We could still see Northumbria by nightfall,” Sithric offered quietly, eyes flicking between Uhtred and Alfred.

“Nah, we’re _definitely_ heading to Scotland,” Finan quipped, “Plenty of Danes on the isles up there. Maybe we get to be slaves there now. See a _whole_ new part of the world.”

“Finan,” Uhtred sighed wearily. Alfred’s brow furrowed even more.

“That’s not happening-”

Uhtred groaned.

“Lord, we’re _passing_ Northumbria-”

“Yes, but there’s no reason for them to take me to Scotland, Uhtred,” and the king was losing his patience now, the frown on his face twisting into a scowl, his words piercing through the gale, “Why in God’s name would they take me there? Northumbria’s the only possible end.”

“ _No,_ it isn’t,” Uhtred could hear the exasperation in his voice, “Lord, Finan has a point. Scotland is full of Danes, especially in the north.”

“And Scots,” Finan added unhelpfully, “Don’t forget the fucking Scots.”

For a second, Alfred just glared at them, his blue eyes searing, stubbornness plain on his face. His eyes flitted around them, to the laughing Danes, to make sure that no one had heard them still.

_Fuck._

Uhtred snuck glances too, and perhaps he should have done that before talking so much, before snapping – but even though the Danes were still peering over at Alfred, curiously, they didn’t seem to care about their whispering, the ship plowing through the churning waves, cold ripping like icy fangs. The only one who seemed to be bothered at all was Halldor now, scowling from near the back, but he did nothing, watching silently from amongst the laughing Danes.

Alfred lowered his voice even more, words stabbing like steel-cold blades.

“Inconsequential Danes. Irrelevant Danes. That’s all they have up there.”

Uhtred sighed, turning away from Halldor’s glare.

“We don’t know that-”

“ _I_ do,” Alfred snapped, “You think I don’t know what happens throughout the land? There is _nothing_ for me in Scotland. There is no reason for them to take me there.”

Uhtred opened his mouth to bite back, but Sithric interjected again, almost too quickly.

“What about Iceland? Ireland?” he asked, staring intently at the king, “Maybe that’s where we’re going-”

“That’s worse,” Alfred clenched his jaw, “Can’t you see how that’s worse? Why would they take me to there, Sithric? What use would they have for a king up there?”

And in that moment, somehow, in _that_ moment, Uhtred realized that maybe Alfred was right.

None of this made any sense. _Alfred_ didn’t make any sense.

He remembered the groves of Iceland, the quiet, endless woods, the small, scattered farms – and even though Uhtred had never been to Scotland, he doubted that the Danish colonies there were any different from that. If he had just been them, Uhtred and his men, Scotland, Iceland, even Ireland would make sense. It would have been like it was with Sverri again, whips, chains and brutal fists, enslaved as beasts to work the land, to be sold like cattle to men.

But Alfred. No, Alfred had no place there. What was the point of a king slaving on a farm?

Why go through all that trouble to follow him, to capture him, if only to take him up to some remote Danish settlement?

_There’s nothing up there for him. No great earl, no great Danish king._

_Why the fuck is Alfred here?_

As the Danes roared into the wind, Osferth shivering, cowering upon his bench, Uhtred looked out to the tossing prow, to the only man that could truly explain it all.

_What the fuck does he want with Alfred?_

Rage began to simmer beneath his veins.

Behind the dragonhead mast, Thorrir sat with his back against the side, his face turned as ever to the front, to the cold, thrashing sea. His dark hair whipped behind him as he chewed on a strip of salted meat, oblivious, uncaring of his crew, his captives, undaunted beneath the spattered spray.

The ship was small enough that he was mere steps away from Uhtred – but in the past two days, Thorrir had barely looked at him, or at Alfred, the Dane lost endlessly in his thoughts. His men bustled around him, but Thorrir was somewhere else, somewhere far away, beyond the whitecapped horizon.

_What the fuck does he want with us?_

Uhtred was so tired of not knowing shit. He looked back to Alfred, the king scowling down at his pale hands now.

_Alfred is here, he’s alive, he’s safe – but for how long? How much longer before they take him away?_

They could sell Uhtred and men off in Scotland, and take Alfred somewhere else still. Maybe they only had a few more days together.

_I’m still going to lose him. They’re still going to take him away._

Fear choked up his throat, over the surging rage.

For the next few moments, the group kept their silence, lost in their own black thoughts. Beside Thorrir, near the pitching prow, the Danes began to share out the food – a crate was opened now, and hands gave out the slips of dried brown meat. Men fished out ale from the teeming barrels, and a Dane, a stout, red-haired one, began to play his flute, the lively, trilling song almost lost in the cold, ripping gale.

They were all still so damp happy, so full of mirth, as Uhtred and his men shivered in their wet corner. Uhtred’s heart was pumping now, from all his carrying thoughts, dread, anger, fear whirling mad, claws crushing around his throat. Thunders grumbled in the distance again, like the waking stretch of a beast.

“Thank god, fuck, just one, just a tiny, _fuck,_ ” Finan hissed, shuffling impatiently. He stared as the pieces of meat travelled down the ship now, passing hands, teeth tearing quick. Uhtred felt his own belly rumble at the sight of it.

“They’ll give us last. They always do,” Osferth whispered, tiredly.

“At least we won’t starve,” Sithric said.

“I swear, once we get back, I’m never complaining about food again,” Finan sulked, eyes tracking ravenously.

As the Danes chugged down their golden ales, Alfred pressed his hand against his gut, his brow still furrowed, as if still lost in thought, almost indifferent to the passing meat.

Uhtred’s belly ached something sharp again, but he just stared at Alfred, heart cavorting.

“They can’t be taking you to Iceland,” he muttered. Alfred looked back at him, the frown easing a little from his pale face.

“You agree.”

“Even if Thorrir had a settlement up there, he would not have gone through all of this just to leave you on some farm,” Uhtred replied, “If he wanted to ransom you, he would have gone to Northumbria. If he wanted to… _boast,_ it would still have been Northumbria.”

The king nodded stiffly, his jaw as hard as steel.

“But we’re passing Northumbria.”

“Yes.”

“You said we’re going northeast.”

Uhtred tried to still the frantic beat of his heart.

“If they stay to this course, it would be a matter of days before we cross the North Sea.”

“Yes, and everyone knows what’s on the other side of the North Sea,” Alfred replied, as cold as the waves.

The Danes nearest to their group suddenly burst into a loud crash of brimming laughter. The flute’s song swept into the sail, like a merry, capering jig.

“Home? Their home?” Finan looked back at them, his leg still drumming impatiently. Almost all of the Danes had their food now, mouths chewing happily.

“Maybe I’m a prize for them to take home,” Alfred said, as the cold wind gnawed. Uhtred opened his mouth again, to reply, his belly gurgling aloud, when finally, one of the Danes began to approach, feet light upon the deck.

It was Leif, tall and fair, his plaited, reddish-gold hair ruffled in the wind. He was draped in his furs, as usual, his shoulders broad and firm, and as he moved nimbly across the rolling deck, his hands were full of meat and bread, a flask of ale swaying at his belted hip. He approached them quickly enough, a small smile twisting at his lips.

“Here,” he handed them the strips of meat, and Uhtred could barely stop himself from snatching it out of his hand. It was dried fish again, thin and hard, far less than what any of the other Danes had - but it didn't really matter, not now. Uhtred shoveled it down, ravenous.

_Thank the gods._

Saliva flooded his mouth, and it tasted like salt, like the briny sea. Relief sank into his bones, and for the first time all day, Uhtred felt a little better.

_Thank fuck._

Around him, his men gobbled down their food too, Finan almost chewing on his fingers. The Saxon beside Alfred wolfed down his portion, while Osferth was the only one who took his time, nibbling half-heartedly on the crackling, tough meat.

Leif turned to Alfred and offered him a piece of crumbly bread. The smile widened on his handsome, bearded face.

“There isn’t much left, but here,” he said, in smooth, clear English. The tattooed wolves on his shaved temples seemed to move, dark blue lines swirling against pale, gold skin.

“Thank you,” Alfred took the bread carefully, his fingers stiff and pale. As he bit into it slowly, Uhtred swallowed the last of his meat, his stomach still aching, begging for more, his mouth tangy and dry from the salt.

“Ale?” Leif handed him the flask, and Uhtred gulped a mouthful down. It tasted like gold, like rushing mirth.

_Thank the gods._

He would never tire of its taste. As he wiped his mouth, heart briefly content, he passed the flask on to Sithric, the Dane grasping, Finan licking at his own fingers. Uhtred looked up at Leif now, standing over them, the taste of ale sweet on his tongue.

“Thank you,” he croaked out, his belly still empty, but better, so much better than it was. The axe on Leif’s belt gleamed like silver, as the waves lashed against the ship.

“Of course,” the Dane nodded his head, his smile still strangely kind. He waited patiently for the flask, as Finan swigged at the ale now.

For a moment, the wind filled the silence, Alfred watching Leif, chewing quietly – and as the relief and bliss from the food and ale slowly died down, Uhtred watched the fair Dane too, his mind whirling, his fury stirring again beneath his aching bones. Leif folded his hands and looked around casually, as Finan took his time with the ale. His long, single plait of hair tossed wild against his damp furs.

_What the fuck does he want?_

Uhtred didn’t trust him for shit. For the past two days, Leif had been the only Dane, really, that had approached them, that had even talked to them. He fed the other Saxon slaves too, indifferently, but it was Uhtred and his men that he seemed to focus on, giving them ale, and getting Alfred bread when he had the gall to ask for it. He had barely said anything worthwhile to them, but he always seemed a little too kind, a little too warm– and that was weird, that was _strange,_ that was not how Danes treated their slaves.

_Is this some kind of trick?_

Uhtred didn’t trust _any_ of it. Leif was the only one who was remotely kind to them, and he was the only one Thorrir ever bothered to talk to. It felt like a trap, every time he approached.

_But to what fucking end?_

As Osferth sipped on the ale now, a large wave battered, ice whipping through the wind. The flute picked up a new, dark tune, dancing through the gale.

Uhtred glared up at Leif now, the rage, the fear racing through his veins. Claws crushed tight around his throat, his hands clenching into fists. 

“Where are we going?” and it was the first time that Uhtred had spoken to him like this, so plainly, so bold, his words ringing out in clear Norse. Leif snapped his head to look at him, surprise fleeting about his face.

“ _Uhtred_ ,” Finan hissed, but he didn’t really care anymore, the rage taking over again. The mending wound on his neck itched, his blood searing red.

Leif’s smile returned to his lips, something wicked in them now.

“You _are_ a Dane,” he said, his warm, green eyes alight with mirth, “The men kept saying it, but it’s a little strange, you have to admit. I didn’t think there were many Danes who served the Saxon kings.” He spoke with that slight, strange accent in Norse, the one that Thorrir and half of the crew spoke with too. Uhtred clenched his jaw, as he tried to swallow his rage.

_Breathe, just fucking breathe-_

In front of him, Alfred said nothing, as he finished the last of his bread. Finan snatched the flask back from Osferth, his eyes watching anxiously.

“Where are you taking us?” Uhtred asked again, gritting his teeth.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to ask, friend,” Leif replied, almost smirking now.

_Fucking, fuck, fuck-_

Uhtred wanted to bash that smirk of his lips. He was losing control, his blood seared, and he could fight now, he really could, he was no longer bound and he had no weapons, yes, but he was _tired_ of this, of not knowing anything, of Alfred, Alfred still in fucking danger, _fuck_ -

“Would it really matter if you tell us?” Alfred’s voice broke through in stilted Norse, his chin held high to Leif. His blue eyes darted back to Uhtred for a second, a clear, sharp warning – and somehow, even now, he must have picked up on Uhtred’s unravelling rage.

_Breathe. Just fucking breathe._

Uhtred slowly unclenched his hands.

Leif turned his gaze towards Alfred, the wolves snarling on his fair temples.

“Maybe,” he shrugged, and his voice was a little kinder again, the smirk on his face easing back into a small smile, “You’ll know soon enough. You don’t to worry about that.”

And it occurred to Uhtred then, as the wind gashed at his skin, that maybe Leif hadn’t been trying to be kind to him and his men at all, but only Alfred really. Alfred was the only one that mattered.

_But it still doesn’t make any sense. None of this does. Where are they taking him?_

As Alfred began to speak again, a voice suddenly tore through the churning waves.

“Leif, for fuck’s sake, would you stop coddling them? Why do you always do this?” it was one of the Danes from a nearby huddle, dark, cropped hair speckled with white water. His face was twisted into a mocking leer. Leif’s grin widened.

“Oh come on, Bragi, what’s the harm?” Leif beamed as warm as the sun, “Surely you don’t mean to have them starve before we dock. What good would that do us then?”

“You don’t have to talk to them,” another Dane croaked, bits of dried fish still caught in his straggly beard, “What do they even have to say?”

“They’re slaves,” a voice agreed from the back.

“They’re Saxons,” a large Dane grunted, “Christians.”

“Except for that one,” and it was Halldor now, sneering at Uhtred, “That one’s a traitor.”

“Aye, you think he lets that little king hump him too? Maybe he loves to suck his cock-”

_Fuck._

Uhtred saw blinding red. Before he could think, he was surging to his feet, Finan grabbing at his leg, blood roaring, heart thrashing, fury screaming, because _fuck_ them, _fuck_ them all, he was going to kill every single one of these fucks, _fuck_ -

“Uhtred!”

He wasn’t the only one who moved. A shadow slammed against Leif’s tall frame, hands grasping wild. Shouts burst through the air, Leif’s gleaming axe flying from his belt –it was the Saxon, the slave beside Alfred, clawing mad, desperate and frenzied. In that moment, he had rushed to his feet too, and grabbed at Leif’s bright axe, the weapon in his hands now as he wrenched out of the Dane’s grasp. His eyes were white and terrified, legs lurching over the bench.

“Stay back!” he screamed, his hands shaking, the axe quivering. The Danes were all shouting now, moving, blades unsheathing, and Uhtred only had a moment to find Alfred there, frozen on his bench, as the Saxon wavered right by his side, fuck-

_Fuck, fuck, don’t hurt him, he won’t-_

Leif moved like the ripping wind.

As the shaking axe twisted down, Leif ducked it and slammed his elbow into the Saxon’s face. The man cried, bone crunching. He staggered back, legs tripping, and Leif tore the axe from his hand. Without another word, he slashed the blade up, ripping the man from hip to shoulder.

Bright blood splattered in the wind. The Saxon tumbled back near Alfred, face slack. His head hit the side of the ship, but Leif wasn’t done. With a grunt, he raised his gleaming axe and hacked it down into the Saxon’s head. Metal cleaved into the skull, with a sickening, wet crack.

_Fuck._

Uhtred’s heart thundered as the silence hung in the frigid air. The Saxon’s pale eyes stared up lifeless, the axe buried bloody in his head.

_Fucking hells._

With a sigh, Leif yanked the axe out, red gleaming on its steel. Blood was spattered on his face too, bright red against pale skin.

“I told you we should have kept them tied,” the Dane with the dark, cropped hair grunted. Alfred was still frozen on his bench, staring down at the dead man at his feet.

_Fuck, fuck-_

That was too close again. Fresh blood had splattered about Alfred’s grimy robes. Uhtred wanted to grab him, to pull him back from the twitching, dead man.

Leif sighed once more, and straightened his back, the blood dripping from his axe. He looked over his shoulder, back to Thorrir – and the large Dane was looking at them too, his dark hair whipping into the icy, rushing gale.

_Well, fuck._

Grey, steely eyes flew up to Uhtred, for just a breath, then back to Leif, cold as the wind. He nodded his head, then turned back to the cold, thrashing waves.

Thunders rumbled, a little closer now, growling through the silence. Leif looked at Alfred, blood dripping dark into his fair beard.

“Toss him over the side,” he ordered, his face still and calm. Alfred looked up at him, quiet for a second – and then he was moving, stumbling to his feet, eyes trained on the bloody, dead man.

Uhtred was still standing, heart pounding, and he moved now to help him-

“Not you,” Leif shook his head, “You, boy. Help him.” He nodded at Osferth, his green eyes firm.

As Finan grabbed at Uhtred’s leg again, pulling him desperately back down to his seat, Osferth lumbered up, slow, stiff, wincing quietly. Alfred climbed easily over the dead man, his face blank, his pale hands grabbing at the corpse’s legs.

“Take his shoulders,” the king muttered to Osferth, specks of blood red on his cheeks. The monk grabbed, his breath short and pained, and together, slowly, they shoved him over the side, the body tumbling clumsily into the icy waves.

_Thank gods._

It was over now, the Danes falling back into their huddles, blades sheathing, men grumbling, as the red sails billowed. Alfred wiped his hands on his dirty grey robes, and sat down again, watching Leif warily. Osferth staggered back to his seat, face scrunched, limping slow on his bad leg.

Uhtred watched as the body floated away, bobbing up and down with the tearing waves. It drifted alone, on the howling sea, never to go home again.

_Gods._

_How the fuck am I supposed to keep him safe?_

Alfred wiped the blood from his cheeks, red smearing dark.

_How can I save him?_

_What am I supposed to do?_

_Gods, what am I supposed to do?_

His heart wrenched as the grey wind swept, as the thunders rumbled again.

“You’re lucky he tried to fight when he did,” Leif said, as he watched the body float away, “You’re lucky they didn’t see you try to fight me too.”

Uhtred gritted his teeth shut.

“It won’t happen again,” Alfred said, in careful Norse, blue eyes flashing to Uhtred, “I will ensure it.”

Leif just smiled.

“Good,” and he picked up the forgotten flask, blood trailing down his face, “He loses his temper like that again, and it won’t just be me who will be cutting him down.” He turned his gaze to Uhtred, his grin sharp and bright.

“Understood?” the tattooed wolves on his temples seemed to grin with him too.

“Yes,” Alfred replied, calmly.

With one last nod, Leif finally walked away, back towards the other Danes. Thorrir stared into the distance. The flute began a new, happy tune. The cold wind tore as Uhtred and his men sat in silence, waves crashing through the grey. 

* * *

Uhtred knew that Osferth was sick.

He knew he had been sick for days, since the beach, since the arrow tore through his calf. He knew he was losing his appetite, that he was getting weaker, as the days went on, sullen and silent in the cold, too frail to keep up with the splashing oars. They had all noticed it, really, Uhtred and his men, Alfred saying not a word. The Danes saw it too, with each passing day, remarking at every other turn.

“That’s one too weak,” Bragi had said, one morning, droplets gleaming in his dark, cropped hair.

“Didn’t I say? He’s damaged,” another had replied, and looked over to Leif, “Should we just kill him, Wolfsgrin? He’s not going to make it.”

“What, and lose one more slave? Do you _want_ to get less silver?” Leif had laughed, as the waves crashed against the side, “Don’t worry. He’ll make it. We’ll toss him if he doesn’t.”

“Can’t we just toss him now?”

“He’s _fine_ ,” Uhtred had gritted then, too loud, too bold again. A Dane punched him in the face, grumbling at him to shut up.

Osferth had said nothing of course. He barely said anything anymore. Uhtred could do nothing but watch the back of his head, guilt roiling through his gut.

_I should have looked after him. Like I looked after Halig. Like how I tried to protect him, at least._

But Uhtred was more useless than he had ever been in his life, cold gnawing, tearing through his skin.

It only got worse as the waves churned, as the icy wind sang. The fever came with the break of dawn, on the 5th day, Uhtred waking as the monk whimpered in his sleep. The night had been restless, the cold biting, but it was starting to warm as the sun rose, its pink rays unfurling through the deep, twilight blue. The sea was at rest, the wind sweet, the ship silent in its sleep, but as they sailed on through the pink-capped waves, Danes snoring in their furs, Osferth trembled, sweating buckets, his pale hands gripping about himself. His skin was sallow even beneath the faint, rosy light, his brow too warm, his pale eyes glassy, distant and unclear.

He was sick. He was getting worse.

_How the fuck did I let it get this bad?_

“Slowly, slowly,” Finan whispered, as Osferth leaned back against the side of the ship, stretching his bad leg out on the bench, dark robes tangled around him damp. Their group had all risen back to their seat, from between the benches where they had slept. There were only two Danes awake now, one at the steer, one at the prow, but as usual, they ignored them, staring out into the quiet, coursing sea.

“Does it hurt?” Sithric mumbled sleepily, as Osferth winced and thumped back his head.

“Of course it does, you idiot,” Finan hissed.

“Be _quiet_ ,” Alfred shushed, glaring through the gentle dark.

Uhtred breathed in the briny air and reached down to Osferth’s leg. He spoke as he moved, quietly, begging the waves to drown out their whispering words.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he slowly pulled the scratchy brown cloth back from Osferth’s leg. The robe was dark there still, stained with blood – and beneath it, Uhtred could see how foul the makeshift bandage was, the cloth that the Danes had used back on the beach rank and black with blood. It stuck to the wound beneath, and there was a smell now, like rotting meat. Osferth whined as the sea wind fluttered through his hair.

_Fuck._

“Jesus,” Finan cursed, scrunching his nose, “Does anybody else smell that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me _sooner_?” Uhtred’s voice felt brittle and weak, his heart plummeting. The last vestige of sleep was fading away now, at the sight of the foul, black blood.

_Gods, gods, what I have done-_

His gut twisted, guilt surging anew beneath his veins.

_I should have known it would get this bad. I should have done something, anything._

“It’s fine, lord,” Osferth winced, his hands gripping the sides of the bench. Dark red sails flapped in the blue, almost black against the blushing skies.

“That’s not fine,” Finan glared, from where he sat at the end of the bench, near the toe of Osferth’s bad leg, “Fuck, you should have said something, monk.”

“No, I’m…fine-”

“You’re _not_ fine,” Uhtred growled, his heart beating wild in his mouth, “We need bandages. We need to clean the wound. It should have stopped bleeding by now.” He gingerly set his hand down on Osferth’s knee, the skin sweaty and warm, the monk flinching a little at his touch. Uhtred pushed the knee gently to get a better look at the wound, dark blood sludging onto the wooden bench.

_Fuck, fuckfuckfuck-_

Alfred leaned over, his dark, soft hair falling about his face.

“You’ll need to drain it,” he muttered, eyes trained on the wound, “The sickness has taken to the cut. If you don’t drain-”

“How?” Uhtred hissed, clenching his teeth, “They won’t give us a knife, they won’t let us do it.”

“We could ask them-”

“ _No_. If we tell them how bad it is, they will be rid of him,” Uhtred looked at Alfred, the smell of sickness crawling down his throat, “We can’t risk it.”

“And if we do nothing?” Alfred asked, the shadows dark beneath his eyes. In the indigo twilight, he reached up now to Osferth’s brow, a pale hand pressing there for just a breath. He frowned, pulling back his hand.

“He’s warm, Uhtred.”

“I know.”

“He needs medicine,” Finan murmured, as he stared anxiously down at the wound. Osferth winced quietly, his glazed eyes flickering over to Alfred.

_Fuck, fuckfuck, what do I do-_

“Finan, hold him,” Uhtred said, claws tight around his throat. He looked at Osferth’s face, and the monk nodded back, lips trembling. Uhtred looked at Alfred briefly, and then reached down, to slowly unwrap the foul dressing, Finan holding the monk’s leg tight as he moaned and flinched.

_Fuck, fucking hells._

It was bad. It was really, really bad. Osferth whimpered as the cloth peeled away, flesh and scabs pulling with it. The cut was deep, the wound pulsing with vile, yellow pus. The smell was horrendous now, and Uhtred could feel the bile burn up his throat.

_Fuck._

“Shit,” Finan cursed.

“Lord, we _have_ to drain it,” Sithric whispered, eyeing the wound with large, dark eyes.

“We don’t even have water to clean it with,” Uhtred swallowed. The dressing was soggy in his hand, his fingers now stained with pus and blood.

“We could ask Leif,” Alfred replied, quietly, “He’s friendlier than the others-”

“To you,” Uhtred gritted, “You’re valuable. Osferth isn’t. He will kill him.”

“Lords, this isn’t the time. We need to cover it up,” Finan muttered, “We can’t use the same dressing.”

“That’s probably how it got sick in the first place,” Alfred said, and guilt roiled in Uhtred’s belly like a twisting nest of snakes.

_Gods, gods-_

_Useless. Pathetic._

For a second, they all seemed frozen, staring at the bleeding, festering wound, Osferth’s breath short and faint, his cheeks void of colour – and then, as the sun rose a little higher, cold wind tearing at their skin, Sithric reached down and stripped a piece of his tunic off. They used a bit of it to wipe the pus and blood away from around Osferth’s wound, and then slowly, gently, Uhtred wrapped the cloth around, tying it tight, the dark cloth staining almost immediately.

They pulled back a little, together, sighing into the wind. Osferth swallowed and thumped his head back again.

“God,” Finan muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. A Dane yawned as he slowly stirred in his furs. The waves lapped against the creaking ship, soft, and gentle and kind.

_This is my fault._

Osferth closed his eyes, breathing shallowly. Alfred looked at the monk, for just a moment, his face expressionless, the blushing light draping him in soft, pink shadows.

_My fault. Mine._

_How am I supposed to stop this?_

“He needs a salve, maythen, honey, hammerwort,” Alfred muttered, his brow furrowed as he recalled, blue eyes dark, “Even garlic. Garlic works too, sometimes. My priests have always used that on me. He needs a priest, Uhtred. He needs prayer.”

“I don’t think there’s any priests where we’re going, lord,” Finan replied.

“It’s alright, I’m fine,” Osferth winced, but as the ship sailed on through the tossing waves, no one said a word, the wind clawing cold and kind. Uhtred let the guilt devour him, like the rolling sea.

_Useless. Pathetic._

He thought of Halig and his screams.

_What am I going to do?_

Black claws clenched around his heart.

_What am I going to do?_

The sun rose gently in the east, the blood dark on his skin.

* * *

The storm came out of nowhere, as if it crawled out of the depths, like a beast raging wild through the churning, black skies. Thunders boomed over their heads, Thor striking with his hammer, as lightning flashed, like brilliant, white fire, ripping the world apart. Beneath them, the ship hurled with the giant waves, the ocean roaring, bellowing into the wind, the rain slashing down on them, like shards of bitter ice.

_We’re not going to drown out here._

Uhtred refused it. He didn’t care. The gods would have to rip his life out with their own bare hands.

_Fuck this. Fuck all of this._

This was _not_ his fate.

All around him, the Danes huddled beneath the storm-tent, the giant tarp unfolded from the mast and tied across the ship, over their sopping heads. Rain thundered on the white sheet, like a thousand stamping feet, but the water still got in, the waves surging over the sides, soaking them all to the bone. Uhtred struggled to hold down an open gap on his end, the tarp’s edge slippery in his palm. He was entirely drenched now, water gashing against his skin, cold gripping around his bones.

_Fuck this._

Danes laughed behind him, still talking as they held on to the flapping tarp, some tying the crates and supplies firmly to the deck. Water swirled around their feet, surging white as the ship rose and fell.

Uhtred watched as his men cowered around him, soaked completely, shivering as the thunders roared. Alfred huddled on his bench, sodden through, drowning in his drenched grey robes.

_He’s not going to drown out here._

Uhtred clutched the small hammer that swung around his neck. He ran his thumb over the bone, over the tiny, delicate notches. 

_Do you hear me, Great Thor? Do you hear me, Rán?_

_This is not his fate._

He watched as the waves crashed upon Alfred, dark hair dripping down his face.

“Thor is crossing the skies!” a stout Dane roared in ecstasy, as if this was fun, his voice echoing beneath the fluttering tent. Sithric jostled beside Uhtred, trying to hold on to his balance, his tunic sticking wet to his skin.

“I told you we can’t outrun him,” Halldor shouted back, scowling.

“Shut up and hold!” Leif bellowed, from where he crouched near the tossing prow. The fair Dane turned to whisper with Thorrir again, his face soaking wet, his red-gold braid hanging sodden down his back. Thorrir was perched on one of the heavy chests, his dark beard dripping down his face – and as they talked among themselves, voices lost in the storm, Uhtred watched, as the mighty sea roared. His vision was clouded by the endless deluge of water, but he studied their faces, Leif worried, Thorrir stoic, as a lightning slashed through the howl. The tattooed wolves on the fair Dane’s temples snarled at the light.

_Leif’s worried the storm’s too strong._

But it wasn’t as if there was anything they could do about it now. They were alone, out here, in the wilding sea, only one wave away from a cold, watery grave.

_This is not our fate._

The storm screamed and howled otherwise.

“Do you think he’s the son?” Finan asked, sniffling, his breath brushing warm. He was sitting in front of Uhtred now, where Osferth once was, holding down the same gap in the flapping tent. The monk was beside him, hunched over, cowering from the spray – Finan had forced him to exchange his place as soon as the storm began, Osferth too weak now to hold the tent, his skin as pale as ice.

“What?” Uhtred shuddered, as the ship creaked and moaned, water soaking through his boots. Finan sat facing him, pressing close, their wet knees grazing against each other’s.

“Leif,” he replied, looking back over his shoulder, water dripping down his beard, “Do you think he’s Thorrir’s son? I think he’s the son. He’s the only one he ever fucking talks to.”

Uhtred shook his head before he even began to reply.

“No, they don’t even look like each other.”

“Maybe,” Finan shrugged, his eyes dark and drained, “Maybe he got all his looks from his mother. Or maybe he’s just like you, lord. Maybe Thorrir took him in.”  
  
A thunder boomed right above their heads, as if the skies were rending apart. Rain pounded against the tent, mind-numbingly loud.

_Leif is Thorrir’s son._

It wasn’t completely unbelievable. They did look nothing alike, but Uhtred could see the barest glimpse of affection on Thorrir’s face now, as he muttered on at Leif. The large Dane was as ice, like the storm beating beyond, and Leif, for all his sharp teeth, was warm, handsome and charming, alluring in a way that Thorrir could never be.

_It explains why Leif’s his second._

It explained why Thorrir left everything to Leif as he brooded in his stony silence.

_But what good does this do? Does it even matter? How the fuck is this supposed to help us now?_

“It doesn’t matter,” Uhtred muttered, as he turned away from the whispering pair. Finan looked back at him, his hair flat and wet.

“Could be something. Could be useful.”

“How? Without weapons, we’re useless,” Uhtred cast his gaze around the tent, to the crouching, chattering Danes, “We can’t do anything until we reach land. That is, if this storm doesn’t kill us first.”

Finan snorted, lips quirking.

“Well, knowing our luck, lord, that’s _exactly_ what’s going to happen.”

For a moment, they were silent, huddling together as the waves battered. Sithric wasn’t really listening to them, his face weary, staring listlessly down to the swirling, wet deck. Osferth barely moved on his bench, burying his head into his chest, and Alfred just sat there, too far away, cold and wet in the whipping spray.

_This is not our fate._

Uhtred wanted to punch something, to hurl his rage out into the clashing storm. Water clawed down his skin, the wound aching at his side.

Finan breathed out a quiet sigh, as thunders rattled again.

“You know, I told myself I would never let us go out to sea again,” he looked out to the roiling waves, holding the gap in the tent a little looser, “Now look at us. Back again. About to _die_ again. Wouldn’t that be funny, lord, if all this time, we died out here anyway?”

“Like Halig,” Uhtred said quietly. Finan looked back at him, water gashing. He swallowed quick, brown eyes bright with sudden memories.

“Aye, like Halig. But at least this time, these fucks will die with us too,” Finan nodded his head over to the huddling Danes, “We all get to drown, together.”

Lightning suddenly tore through the air, a little too close to the ship, blinding white through the flapping sheets. The chatter on the ship froze as it cracked, thunder rumbling.

_Fuck, how long before Thor decides to strike down our mast too?_

Unease began to settle about the ship, unbelievably for the first time since the storm began. Uhtred looked at Alfred, sharp black claws wrenching around his heart.

“Alfred cannot die,” he muttered, his throat suddenly tight. He watched as the king folded his arms against the slashing ice.

Finan cleared his throat, eyes falling to the deck.

“And what if his fate is sealed?” he asked. Uhtred looked at him, frowning now.

“What?”

Finan’s eyes burned bright, pleading, as the water trailed down his skin.

“Wherever these lot are taking us, if they’re taking us to their home, then what they have planned for Alfred and for us are entirely different, lord,” he pressed closer, his breath warm.

“I know that, Finan,” Uhtred bit. Another wave surged over the sides, water rushing through the gaps, crashing over them. Uhtred clung to the flapping tent, salt water gushing up his nose.

_Fucking-_

He coughed and spat, his eyes burning from the icy salt. Finan cursed and tried to wipe the water from his face.

“Fucking hells,” he muttered, but Uhtred was already talking over him.

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to help,” Finan replied, his voice hoarse, “When we get to land, they’re going to take Alfred away. They’re going…to do whatever it is they want to do with him. But us, lord. They still going to try to sell us-”

“I know-”

“Yes, and Osferth is _dying_ ,” Finan pled, eyes too bright, almost frantic now. He was getting agitated, more so with every breath, as the rain pounded and slashed.

Uhtred looked to Osferth, still silent and wet, still facing the lurching prow. He couldn’t see his whole face, or down at his wound-

_But this storm isn’t helping. It’s just making him sicker._

Uhtred clenched his jaw and looked away, his gut twisting.

“He’s not dying yet,” he muttered as the wind tore.

“Unless we find a way to drain that wound, lord, he already is,” Finan said “I’ve seen fever like this. You’ve seen sickness like this. You know how fast it works.”

“Finan-”

“I know you want to protect Alfred, but we’re not in England anymore,” Finan’s eyes seemed to blaze, the words spilling out of him like the rushing waves, “I will follow you, until the very end, we are bound, but you, lord, a man could argue that you are not _beholden_ to Alfred anymore.”

Uhtred gritted his teeth.

“Finan _-_ ”

“Osferth is a just a boy. And these Danes, they will kill him once they find out. And then, after all of that, they, they will take us, and they will bind us, and sell us to some farm, or to some slave ship, and we will _never_ see other again, lord, they will separate us, they will make us row again-”

“ _Finan,_ ” Uhtred reached out and grasped his friend’s cold hand. His heart wrenched, skin burning like ice beneath his wet palm. Finan stopped, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open – and Uthred had never seen him like this, so terrified, so anxious, stretched completely beyond his means.

_Of course he’s scared. He’s scared like me._

It was as if all the fear and anxiety of the past 2 weeks had finally reached its brim with Finan, the thunders rattling, the sky flashing as he stared at Uhtred, desperate.

_How long has he been holding it in for me? For Sithric, for Osferth?_

Guilt burned, clawing up Uhtred's throat.

_I dragged them into this, Finan’s here because of me, and I don’t even think, I can’t even help, I just go mad over Alfred, fuck, fuck-_

He closed his eyes, and breathed in the icy, tearing air.

_My fault. Mine._

He buried his heart, and tightened his grip around Finan’s hands.

“He’s not going to die. I won’t let Osferth die,” and he _needed_ Finan to hear him, to understand, to believe in him one more time, “I’m not going to let them take you. I will not let them separate us, Finan. We’re going to find a way out of this. We’re going to survive. Trust me. You must trust me. One more time.”

Finan looked at him silently, water streaming down his beard. His brown eyes burned and gleamed, a thousand whirling thoughts.

_Please. Trust me._

Uhtred couldn’t do this without him. He wanted to take away all of Finan’s fears, to give him as much of his own strength as he could. 

_I will find a way home. I promise you._

A lightning ripped through the world.

_Trust me, one more time._

“Alright,” Finan muttered, and his face hardened, his hand squeezing tight. He pressed his forehead gently against Uhtred’s, eyes gleaming bright.

_Alright._

Resolve, relief stirred in Uhtred’s chest. He closed his eyes and they stayed there, for a second, hands clenched, foreheads pressed, breath mingling together.

Warmth unfurled in Uhtred’s heart as the storm raged and crashed.

_Alright._

He could do this. He could save them all.

He had no other choice.

_Alright._

He squeezed Finan’s hand as the skies shattered again.

* * *

Uhtred had never quite seen the stars like this before.

Back on Sverri’s ship, he had only been able to see the night sky, the world out of the vessel’s belly, the stars so far away, the wooden sides enclosing all around. On land, there was always something around him, the trees, the hills, the flickering lamps – but out here, on the lapping sea, on the quiet, stirring ship, there was nothing left but the stars, gleaming in the icy black, silver and blue twirling like a song.

They stretched to the ends of the world, not a wisp of a cloud in sight. Stars fell into the sea like twinkling snow – and as Uhtred sat there, against the side of the ship, he felt as if he had fallen into the black, diving into the swirling skies, endless, quiet, gentle and kind. The universe tugged at his veins, the ocean swelling vast in his chest. The dark waves glimmered as he drifted away beneath the trembling starlight.

_I wonder where we are now._

The cold wind gashed, like sharp, tearing fangs. Uhtred thumped his head back against the wood, and listened as the black waves sang.

_I need to fucking sleep._

He watched the stars dance, thrumming beneath his skin.

_Why can’t I fucking sleep?_

He breathed out a sigh, into the icy wind.

It had been hours since the sun set, since the Danes first took to their sleep – they were all slumbering now, about the ship, wrapped tight in their thick, heavy furs. The cold was particularly biting tonight, and though the wind wasn’t as strong, the ice still gnawed, as black and bitter as the endless depths. The Danes had decided to sleep beneath the benches because of it, using each pew as a weak shield against the stinging wind – in turn, they had kicked Uhtred and his men, and the three Saxon slaves, away from their usual seats, pushing them to lay near the open prow, among the tumbling crates.

It was far more uncomfortable up here, with no blankets, no way to hide from the wind – but at least now, they were nearer to each other, close enough to huddle together in their sleep.

The three remaining Saxons slept a little away from them, nearer to the mast, cowering in the dark. Sithric and Finan snored beside each other, on the edge of their group, like watchdogs, shivering, curled up upon the cold, rocking deck. Osferth laid flat on the floor, his head brushing against Uhtred’s thigh, his face scrunched up even in his sleep, his skin a ghastly white.

_I wonder if the ice will take us tonight._

Uhtred could feel the cold of the deep, black sea, seeping through the floorboards like icy claws, crushing around their limbs. He rubbed his hands together, as his breath puffed out, white into the dark. He looked across to other side of the prow now, to where Alfred knelt, slight and frail, a whisper of grey against the black.

_Idiot._

Uhtred had told him to stay put, to not say anything, to keep his bloody head down – but Alfred was Alfred, and he knelt there now, head bent, talking lowly with Leif. The king had roused the fair Dane from his sleep, the man rubbing his eyes wearily – but in the dark, Uhtred could still see his familiar smile, that soft one he seemed to reserve only for Alfred. Thorrir was knackered out beside him, a large bundle of dark furs, but Leif was moving now, pulling out supplies, helping Alfred with his request.

_Fucking idiot._

Uhtred didn’t want to draw attention to this, to let them see, even guess at how bad Osferth really was. He didn’t like the way Leif smiled at Alfred, he didn’t trust him at _all_ –

_Fuck, fucking hells-_

He looked back up to the stars. He breathed in the silver air and tried to calm his whirling, weary mind.

_They know. They know already, and when we get to shore, and the monk isn’t better, they will kill him._

As Uhtred stared at the glimmering sky, he brushed his hand down upon Osferth’s clammy brow. The skin seared, the monk twitching as sweat trailed down his skin.

_Fuck, it’s not breaking. The fever’s not going to break._

Claws crushed around his throat, choking his pale breath. The moon was dark, a still, black face among the weaving stars.

Across the prow, Alfred slowly rose back to his feet. His stained, grey robes fluttered as he moved back across the deck, his feet barely making a sound. Behind him, Leif stretched lazily and began to fall back down into his furs. As he went, his green eyes flickered towards Uhtred, his smile widening roguishly.

_Fucking arsehole._

Uhtred glared back, and Leif just grinned at him like a wolf. The Dane finally flopped back to sleep as Alfred stepped past Sithric, quiet and grey.

“Here,” the king muttered, and he stuck his hand out towards Uhtred, robes whispering – in his hand, there was a small leather flask, with a dark blue rag wrapped around its head.

“Ale?” Uhtred raised his eyebrow.

“Water,” Alfred forced the flask forward, “I told you. We need to cool him down.” He nodded at Osferth’s prone form. In the silvery starlight, Alfred’s face was half-veiled in wavering shadows, the sails rustling, his blue eyes blank as Uhtred took the flask and unwound the rag.

“He needs ale,” he grunted, as lowly as he could. He wet the rag thoroughly, the water gnawing at his hands like frozen fangs. Alfred huffed out a quiet breath.

“No, we need to bring down his fever-”

“We need ale to wash the wound,” Uhtred pressed the wet cloth to Osferth’s brow, claws tightening around his throat. For a moment, Alfred said nothing, still standing over them, quietly – and then, with a soft sigh, he slunk down, sitting on Uhtred’s other side, away from Osferth. He leaned back against the ship’s flank, knees folding up to his chest. His shoulder brushed against Uhtred as he carefully arranged his grimy robes.

Uhtred wet the cloth again and pressed it down against Osferth’s burning skin. The cold water ran down the monk’s face now, as he twitched and murmured in his sleep.

_This isn’t going to work._

He looked down at Osferth’s leg, the robe black around his wound.

_I already used my water ration to clean the wound. Ale, ale would be better._

But not good enough too, nothing would be until they drained the pus.

_What the fuck am I supposed to do? He’s going to lose his leg._

_He’s going to die, fuck-_

Uhtred brushed his fingers through Osferth’s sweaty hair. For some reason, he tried to nudge the boy awake, whispering his name, but the monk barely stirred, eyelids fluttering in his sleep.

_Fuck._

He tried again, whispering a little louder, but nothing. Not a blink. Sweat glistened like silver upon Osferth’s skin.

“It’s a fever dream. Let him sleep,” Alfred muttered, rubbing his hands together. Uhtred spread the wet cloth against Osferth’s burning brow. Very carefully now, he moved the boy’s head into his lap, the monk stirring but not waking, muttering dark nonsense. Finan snorted in his sleep, rolling a little away on the deck. Alfred’s breath puffed white as he hugged his knees to his chest.

Silence wrapped around them, the waves lapping like a gentle song. The icy stars watched them silently, twirling through the inky black.

“He’s not going to make it, is he?” Alfred asked, his voice quiet and clear. No one could hear him, a lone Dane guard near the back, at the steer. The king’s grey robes whispered about his feet, almost silver in the starlight.

Uhtred turned the wet rag over, and pressed it again onto Osferth’s brow. The monk twitched, shivering, burning on his lap.

“He has to,” and Uhtred would blame it on the exhaustion, the fatigue, as he brushed his fingers softly through Osferth’s fair hair again, “He will live. He knows that I did not give him permission to die.”

Alfred sighed again.

“He shouldn’t even be here, Uhtred. He’s just a boy.”

Something dark stirred in Uhtred’s chest, raking against his ribs.

“He’s my man,” he clenched his jaw, “He knew the risk.”

“He’s a _monk_ ,” Alfred’s blue eyes cut across to him, dark hair trembling against his pale cheeks. Shadows danced about his face, silver and black chasing across his skin.

Uhtred swallowed back the clawing ire, fingers tangling through Osferth’s hair.

“He came to me,” he replied, as the ice sunk into his bones, “He wished to serve, as a warrior-”

“A monk has no place in the battlefield.”

“Father Prylig wouldn’t agree,” Uhtred snorted, “Neither would Beocca. Beocca fought with us Ethandun-”

“Yes, but Osferth is different,” Alfred bit, his words cutting like blades. He stared away, into the black, shivering as the wind called.

_Right._

For a moment, Uhtred said nothing at all, as he stared at Alfred, at the gentle lines of his cheek, of his sharp jaw. The king shuddered, indifferent to his gaze, and brought his hands up to his lips, puffing them warm, a scatter of mist in the silver-black. The dark sail billowed, wavering shadows. Sithric shuffled in his sleep.

_Of course._

The words slipped out before Uhtred could stop it, whispering up to the stars.

“Because he’s your son,” the icy waves sang into the quiet black. Alfred didn’t flinch. He didn’t move at all. He stared ahead, across the prow, to the dark cold sea.

“Yes,” his voice was blank, his face still, as if it had been crafted from stone. Uhtred felt his gut fall away, into the tumbling abyss.

_He knows._

Of course he did. Of _course_ he did. Uhtred should have known that nothing would escape Alfred, not even Osferth.

_Did he know from the start? Is, is Osferth a spy? To watch me?_

Gut twisting, he spoke again, quietly into the black.

“How long have you known?”

“Who do you think put him in that monastery, Uhtred?” Alfred sighed, cold and distant, “I have known of him since his birth. I knew when he left, to serve under you. He was supposed to stay there, live in that church for the rest of his days.”

“As a priest?”

“A monk, yes. That is God’s plan,” Alfred raised his chin a little. Uhtred fiddled with the cloth on Osferth’s brow, the fever searing through. The monk shuffled on his lap, oblivious to their words.

“A monk cannot be king,” Uhtred said, his mind slowly grasping the truth of it all, “You made sure he went to a monastery so that Edward would be safe, so that he would never grow up to try to take the throne.”

“Yes,” Alfred looked at him, face turning only slightly, his blue eyes like blades of ice in the swirling dark, “I will not let my son be aggrieved by the sins of his father. I will not let England suffer for it.”

Uhtred scoffed.

“Osferth would never want to be king. The boy can barely fight.”

“Yes, but boys become men, Uhtred,” and Alfred’s lips curled a little with disdain, “Men are not above killing their brothers to get their crown. It has happened time and again.”

“Osferth is _harmless_ -”

“There are men all over England who would gladly make him a rallying cry upon my death,” Alfred snapped, the ice wall around him suddenly cracking just a little. His face darkened into a scowl, for a second, as he sucked in an icy breath. His pale hands rubbed together, still seeking warmth.

_No, that’s not-_

Uhtred opened his mouth to reply, but Alfred raised his hand now, cutting him off imperiously.

“No, never mind, Uhtred,” he lowered his voice, his face smoothing back into its cold, blank veneer, “It doesn’t matter anymore. At least now he will no longer be a threat to England.”

Uhtred felt the cold black crush around his heart. He froze, his breath caught, as the words hung in the glimmering dark.

_What?_

Alfred stared ahead again, across the rocking bow. Rage, dark and wild, suddenly choked around Uhtred’s throat.

“He’s your _son_ ,” he gritted, his heart pounding, roaring so abruptly like a storm. He clenched his fist, his other hand pulling back from Osferth’s trembling brow.

“He’s a sin,” Alfred said, like frost, like the cold sinking into their bones. Uhtred huffed.

“That is not his fault.”

“No, it’s mine. He is my sin. My weakness-”

“And for that, he should die?”

“No, that is _not_ what I said,” Alfred scowled again, eyes flashing back, “He was supposed to stay at the monastery. He was not supposed to go with you. He was meant-”

“To be invisible? To be nothing?”

“He’s a bastard. This is what happens to bastards.”

“Fuck-”

“Why do you even care, Uhtred?” Alfred bit, and the ice walls were cracking through now, “You’ve never shown affection for any of your men besides Finan. And now, suddenly, you care.”

“He’s dying,” Uhtred’s hand clutched at Osferth’s shoulder, trembling with rage, “He’s still your son. He’s still your blood.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Uhtred wanted to scream into the icy wind, “Only thing that ever matters to you is England. Your throne. Your _pride._ ”

“My children matter-”

“But not Osferth,” Uhtred snapped. The king opened his mouth, eyes blazing bright – and then he turned away again, back to the prow, a muscle jumping at his jaw. His entire body was lined with brimming rage now, and he rubbed his hands as the silence grew between them like a gulf.

_Fuck, fuckfuckfuck-_

Uhtred wanted to rage, to burn it all.

_He’s empty. He’s heartless._

Why would Uhtred ever let himself think otherwise? Osferth mumbled in his lap, sweat soaking into his lap.

_I don’t even understand why I am so angry._

Osferth was dying, and his father didn’t care.

_You’re better than this. I’ve seen it. I know it. You’re lying, you have to be._

Black claws wrenched around Uhtred’s heart, the storm raging beneath his skin.

For the longest breath, the silence gaped, filled with the lapping waves. The Danes snored into the wind, as the ship creaked and ached.

The silver stars watched them, gentle and kind. Uhtred let the words escape, flowing free like the waves.

“My father was the same,” he stared ahead, across the dark prow too, “I didn’t matter until my brother was dead. Until I became his heir.” He had no idea why he was saying this, why these words were spilling out like the scattered stars, but they were out now, in the wind, tumbling through the dark.

Alfred said nothing for a breath, his shoulders stiff and tight – and then, with a sigh, he sagged back a little against the ship’s side.

“I was the youngest of five sons, Uhtred,” he whispered, resigned, “My father never quite cared for me either.”

_Five sons. Four brothers._

Uhtred stared down at the grey bandage, Alfred’s rag rustling around his arm.

_How did I not know that?_

The storm quelled a little in his chest. He sighed too, and closed his eyes.

“Lord-”

“But I was not his bastard,” Alfred said, as cold as ice. The storm roared anew, battering against Uhtred’s ribs.

“That is not the boy’s fault.”

“Why do you care how I deal with him?” and he was back now, the cold, furious glare, the sharp, unyielding king, hard and cruel, struggling to keep his voice down, “I made sure Osferth had a home. I made sure the church took him in, fed him, my duty is done. You’re the one who brought him here, Uhtred.”

“He _chose_ this-”

“Do not pretend to be a better father than me. You’re no better, you left your own son to die in a hut while you ran.”

Uhtred froze. His blood felt like ice. The black claws tore through his heart, pain searing, tearing wild.

_I-_

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t say a word. Osferth burned in his lap, and all he could feel was the aching thump of his own heart.

_I, I-_

Silence engulfed them. The stars glimmered on. Uhtred remembered his son’s soft, little face.

_How long has it been? How long since I last thought of you?_

Fury and grief burned through his veins, consuming him whole.

“Fuck you,” he bit, the words choking out of him. Uhtred didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care about titles, about who Alfred was.

_Fuck him. Fuck him for everything._

He stared ahead at the tossing prow, hands trembling where they brushed against Osferth’s shoulders.

_Fuck him. I hate him. I hate everything he chooses to be._

“Yes, quite right,” Alfred replied, quietly. Out of the corner of his eyes, Uhtred could see Alfred pull his knees tighter to his chest now, his head bowing down, his shoulders hunching, the king suddenly small again.

The waves splashed into the whispering black.

“I, I shouldn’t have said that.” 

Uhtred had never heard him like this before, hesitant, unsure, grey robes fluttering like moonlight.

_Fuck you, fuck you, gods-_

“You were protecting me,” Alfred said, slowly, carefully, “In the swamps, when he… when your son died. You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to stay. If you had left me, you would have…been there.”

_Fuck you, fuck, you live in my veins-_

Uhtred said nothing as Alfred carried on, whispering up to the stars.

“Iseult told me,” and Uhtred felt his heart clench, “Before the battle, about what she believed, that her…magic took your son’s life to pay for mine.”

_No, no, why didn’t you tell me you knew-_

“I didn’t believe her, of course, I never did. It’s nonsense, all of it, but…”

“Did I believe it?” Uhtred finished. The silence hung between them like a weight. He breathed out into the cold black wind, and finally, after a while, he looked back at Alfred, his own heart aching beneath his ribs.

The king watched him, dark, soft hair brushing against his cheeks. His blue eyes were as bright as the stars, and there was something different about his face now, some emotion that Uhtred had never quite seen before, something he couldn’t understand. The icy façade, the rage, the disdain was gone now, into the icy black– he looked at Uhtred as if he was trying to understand, to read him too.

_Fuck you, I don’t understand._

Uhtred wanted to drown in his eyes, like he did with the swirling sky. In the silver light, in the wavering dark, Alfred looked like he belonged among the stars.

_Beautiful._

Uhtred wanted to bash his head in.

_He’s beautiful, he’s always been, and there’s no point denying it anymore._

He was too tired, too cold, too angry. He didn’t care at all.

_He’s cruel to me, and I still think he’s beautiful. He lives in my fucking veins._

Uhtred looked up at the silver stars, as the vastness overwhelmed. He wanted to touch, to feel every inch, to taste Alfred’s lips.

_No, gods, no, fuck-_

He squeezed his eyes shut.

_Please, no, not this-_

He forced the words out, pushing back the thoughts, the searing flames beneath his skin.

“It wasn’t Iseult’s fault,” he swallowed, keeping his gaze on the stars, “It was my son’s fate. Not even the gods can change that.”

Alfred’s gaze burned into the side of his face.

“Fate,” the king echoed, waves splashing black. Osferth stirred in Uhtred’s lap again, burning like the sun. Finan stretched and murmured in his sleep.

“How do you know?” Alfred asked.

“Know?”

“What is fate, god’s plan, and what is not?”

Uhtred looked at Alfred again, as the cold wind slashed. The king rubbed his hands together, against the biting ice.

“Everything is fate,” Uhtred said.

“Even this?” Alfred nodded to the Danes, “Even him?” He gazed down at Osferth.

“Yes,” Uhtred’s heart clenched, ripping black, “Destiny is all.”

They sat together in silence, as the ship sailed through the dark sea. The gentle stars watched them on, quietly.

Alfred kneaded his hands together again, breath puffing white. Without a thought, Uhtred reached over, through the black, and took his hands, gently.

_Gods-_

The skin burned beneath his palm. He didn’t know what he was doing, but Alfred’s hands were cold as ice, soft and white.

_Shit, what, what-_

The king froze, his blue eyes staring up at him. Uhtred pulled their hands back, and Alfred let him, arms moving stiffly, awkwardly.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

He didn’t know, he didn’t know, rage still burning beneath his skin, but he had never touched Alfred’s hands before. He had never touched him like this. As the cold black snarled, Uhtred rubbed Alfred’s hands between his, trying to warm them. He grazed his thumb over his knuckles, over his soft, clever fingers.

_His hands are bigger than mine._

Uhtred’s heart pounded wild, thrashing mad. He pulled Alfred’s hands closer to his own chest, and prayed that he couldn’t feel his heart.

_Stop, stop, what am I doing-_

He couldn’t pull away, their hands getting warm. They sat there together, in the most awkward position, but neither of them would let go, Alfred staring at him, like burning ice.

_Gods-_

Uhtred wanted to stay there forever, with Alfred’s breath brushing warm against his cheek. He wanted to memorize every line, beneath the silver starlight. It was as if they had found this moment, this peace, in between the trembling dark.

_I could touch you forever. Now and forever, until the very end._

Alfred stared down at their warm, touching hands.

“I think I wish god never had a plan for me, Uhtred,” he whispered, shakily, into the dark. Uhtred wanted to pull up and kiss his hands, to brush his lips against his skin.

_I hate you._

_Gods, I hate you._

He sighed into the wind.

“I wish fate would leave me alone too,” he whispered, into the swirling stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! First of, thank you again for all your kudos and comments, I really appreciate it and love it! Thank you so much!
> 
> Now, on to the chapter...
> 
> First off, I mentioned a couple of Norse gods in this chapter - Aegir's domain refer to Aegir, the god of the sea, and Ràn is his wife, goddess of the sea, storms and the drowned. As Uhtred gets further away from England, he starts to well, refer back more to the gods. I've explain it better in the later chapters, and also I don't want to give too much away lol. Uhtred also has a pretty complicated relationship with fate??? Destiny is all, but also, fuck you, I'll decide my fate?? I'm still working on that, and again, I'll explore it later on.
> 
> On a historical note, I know shit all about sailing. Fun fact: it took only 3-7 days for a longship to travel from England to Scandinavia. For the purpose of this story, I've stretched it a little bit longer. 
> 
> Also, the historical Alfred really was the youngest of five brothers! He was literally the baby! The baby!
> 
> Finally, phew! I can't believe I finally made some progress between Uhtred and Alfred, as tiny as it is. I had so much fun writing the last scene, and I hoped you guys enjoyed it. Thank you again for all your support, and please stay safe out there. I'll see you again soon!
> 
> (Also, I keep listening to "Gold Rush" by Taylor Swift, and it reminds me of Uhtred's perspective on Alfred? And maybe vice versa???)


	9. The Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Just want to quickly say that I am by no means an expert on Scandinavian history and culture. A lot of what we know about them was written centuries later, or based on outsider's perspective, so its never going to be 100% accurate anyway. But yeah, I took some liberties, especially with the geography, but nothing too stupid, like a car. 
> 
> Either way, please enjoy!

Uhtred saw the jagged mountains before anything else.

In the distance, the cold, dark peaks tore up into the cloud-streaked sky, an endless march of clawing rock, like the bones of a great sea beast. They were still a far away, hazy and blue, but as the longship sailed through the icy waves, Uhtred couldn’t help but stare at them, at the vast, towering shades. Little, rocky skerries jutted out of the water now, waves breaking white against the stony shores. Birds wheeled overhead, cawing loud, into the fluttering gale.

_Where in the hells are we?_

It was the first time they had seen land, since they had first set sail. Uhtred stared out at the mountains, looming on their right, the waves crashing like thunders against the distant rocks.

_Is this Denmark?_

He never thought he would ever see the likes of it. He remembered all the stories Ravn had told him, all those wistful, long tales of home.

_Is this it? Is this where he was from? Is this where my family was from?_

Uhtred watched as the pale white clouds drifted about the white-capped peaks.

_Did they look upon this same mountain range? Did they sail these waters too?_

Something hollow rung in his chest, as the cold sank into his bones. He imagined Ragnar, his father, standing upon a ship and watching the same, misty coast.

_He left here an earl, and I come here a slave._

Black claws tore at his heart. 

As the cold wind battered against Uhtred’s skin, the dark red sail flapping above, the creaking ship glided through the blue-green waves, water splattering into the icy air. It was just a little after dawn, but the sun was out now, a gleaming circle of distant warmth – the ocean was bright, and the air was sweet, with the promise of hearth and land.

All around Uhtred, the Danes had taken to their spirits, voices crashing through the wind – the sight of land had cheered them on, even more than they usually were. They would all need to row again soon, as they coasted closer to the rugged shore, but for now, the Danes lounged about the ship, bickering, laughing, playing their trilling songs.

The wooden deck moaned beneath their feet as they passed a flat, rocky islet. Uhtred thought he saw the dark shapes of seals twirling beneath the frothy waves.

“We don’t have mountains like this in England, do we?” Leif drawled in English, into the glimmering wind. The tall Dane was leaning against the mast now, right beside Uhtred and his men, his broad arms folding casually across his chest.

Uhtred offered him a quick glance, but the Dane was still looking out to the looming mountains, his reddish-gold braid almost gleaming in the speckled sunlight.

“We?” Finan asked, craning his neck to look up at Leif. The tall man shrugged.

“I lived in England for years. Sometimes, it’s a ‘we’.”

The waves split, curling white, beneath the tossing hull.

Around Uhtred, his men held their silence as they stared out too at the jagged crags, the biting water spraying, shimmering like stars beneath the sunlight. They were all in their usual seats, Osferth slumped before Uhtred against the ship’s side, Finan shuffling, Sihtric still and quiet upon the rocking bench. Beyond them, Alfred sat at his usual place, the seat empty beside him – he stared at the mountains, dark hair whipping back from his pale, tired face.

Laughter erupted from the other side of the ship, Danes guffawing up into the streaked skies. Thorrir sat quietly upon the prow, as always, and gazed out at the stony mountains too.

“Is it Denmark?” the words left Uhtred before he could even think. The wound on his side twinged as he looked away from the coast, and back towards Leif.

The Dane’s green eyes met his, his beard trembling in the frigid wind.

“Is that where you’re from?” he asked, as the sail fluttered above his head. He quirked a fair eyebrow. Uhtred felt his heart twist.

“My family was,” he looked back to the growing, foggy peaks. Out of the corner of his eye, Uhtred could see Leif frowning a little now, his brow scrunching, puzzled as the wind swept across the sea. Leif opened his mouth to reply, but Alfred cut him off, voice quiet and calm.

“Are you saying that’s not Denmark?” his blue eyes gazed up at Leif, sure and composed. His slender hands folded neatly upon his blood-stained lap.

The smallest of smiles chased away the frown from Leif’s pale face.

“You do remember that you’re our prisoners? I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Surely it doesn’t matter anymore whether we know or not,” Alfred stared, unyielding as stone, “You’re the one that came to us, as soon as land appeared. I think you want to tell us.”

A heartbeat, and then Leif just chuckled, teeth glinting brilliant white. He turned his gaze back to the mountains, lips twisting wryly.

“Norway,” he finally said, green eyes distant, “That’s Norway. We’re heading to Alrekstad.”

The silence that followed hung around their necks like choking iron chains.

_Norway._

Uhtred felt his heart plummet into the cold, black sea.

_Norway, how, what-_

He had never even considered it. He had never thought it, at all, in all these past cold days – they had crossed the bitter North Sea, and as Alfred had said, there was only one place at the end of it that made any sense. They were going to Denmark, and though Uhtred hadn’t really thought about it, he had been sure of it, at the back of his mind. The Danes were taking them home.

Not Norway.

_Why Norway?_

What the fuck was Uhtred supposed to do with that? He knew of the land, of course, every Dane did – plenty of Northmen had fought with Ubba, had dined and rested in Ragnar’s hall, had met their blades against Uhtred’s, no different than any other Dane. Gisela’s grandfather was from Norway, as was Uhtred’s own mother, Sigrid. There was really not much difference between them all, the Saxons saw them as the same – but Uhtred had only really ever known _Danes._ Danes from Denmark, not Northmen, who were wilder and harsher as the stories say.

He looked up at Leif again, his mind whirling as the cold wind slashed.

_Is that why some of these men speak a little different?_

Uhtred should have realized it sooner. He should have picked up on that accent, should have figured out that Leif, that most of the men here were Northmen, not Danes, because, because now -

_What? What difference does this make?_

He still didn’t have a plan. If this was Norway, then they were further from England then he thought. This wasn’t his father’s, his family’s land. Ravn’s stories did little for him now.

_Is this what the fates had always planned for me? Is that what the Norns spun?_

His destiny was Bebbanburg but here he was now, sailing into the far, icy north.

Black claws crushed around his throat, as his eyes fell on Alfred’s rigid back.

_How the fuck am I supposed to get him home now? What am I going to do?_

Finan muttered foul and hung his head, words buried beneath the crashing waves. 

“Is that where you’re from?” Uhtred croaked, a frown twisting at his lips. Alfred’s grey rag fluttered around his arm, as the sun beamed, through the fading clouds.

Leif cocked his head, the tattooed wolves grinning at his temples.

“Does that bother you, Dane?”

“No,” Uhtred bit, because what else could he say? Leif uncurled from the mast, like a cat stretching from its nap.

“Then there is nothing else for you to know. We’ll reach Alrekstad before dusk.”

“And that’s a town, a city?” Finan asked.

“You’ll see,” Leif replied, and that was the end of it – with one last smirk, he just left them now, prowling back to the tossing bow, as if he had truly only ever came to them to tell them it was Norway. Uhtred still couldn’t make sense of him, but he didn’t really care. The birds called, as his gut crumbled to the pitching deck.

_Norway._

_Gods, fuck-_

His mind spun, grasping tiredly for a solution, answer, anything. The ship skipped over the dancing waves, and for a moment, Uhtred and his men, Alfred stayed silent, the wind warming a little from the sun.

_This, this changes nothing, yes?_

_This, fuck, useless-_

Osferth suddenly sighed and slumped forward, letting go of his strength now that Leif was no longer there. Uhtred grabbed him instinctively by the back of his robe, and Finan held him up, clutching fiercely at his arm.

“Osferth?” Uhtred whispered, sneaking glances all around – but their captors were as usual pre-occupied, oblivious to them. Leif was talking to Einar now, and Finan squared his shoulders, to try and block Osferth from view. The monk hung his head down to his chest.

“Osferth,” Uhtred tried again.

“I’m fine, lord,” Osferth quickly muttered back. He peered a little over his shoulder, his skin as pale as death.

_Fuck._

Uhtred’s heart sank even more. Osferth’s fever had broken two nights ago, but it hadn’t stayed away, not completely. As the mountains loomed nearer now, their voyage at sea finally coming to an end, Osferth was still sick, weak and tired, his eyes glazed, moving as if he was on his last leg. The fever kept haunting him, coming and going like the waves upon the helm. Uhtred had no idea if the monk would even be able to walk once they reached land.

_When they see how weak he is on shore, fever or not, they’ll kill him and toss him to the crows._

The monk was subdued and quiet today, as if he already knew what fate had planned for him. Uhtred felt sick, his gut empty, fear gripping tight now around his heart.

_Fuck, what am I going to do?_

He looked up a little and met Alfred’s eyes. The king held his gaze, and then looked away, as unfathomable as the depths.

“What are we going to do?” Finan muttered, brown eyes wide, his worry plain on his face. Osferth slumped back against the ship’s side, and Finan pulled back his hand hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” Uhtred swallowed, hand trailing uncertainly away from Osferth’s back. Guilt roared, and worry gnawed, choking around his throat. He should have had a plan by now. He had had days to think, to come up with something-

_But once again, yet again, I can’t fucking think._

What chance did they have once they reached this Alrekstad, once they docked among a hundred teeming Danes and Northmen? All of a sudden, those towering mountains felt not like the bones but the jaws of a great sea beast, a maw waiting to consume them whole, to devour them into the black.

_They’ll separate, they’ll kill us, they’ll us and take Alfred away, I won’t be able to keep him safe-_

The same thoughts, always the same, terrifying thoughts whirling through his heavy head.

“Norway. _Norway_?” Finan muttered to himself now, incredulously.

“He could be lying,” Sihtric replied.

“He’s not,” Alfred said, as sure as the rising peaks. They passed another small, stony skerry, a barren, flat rock among the bright, crashing waves. Uhtred felt the sun reach down and brush its warm fingers against his icy cheek.

“How the fuck did we get so far?” Finan grouched. Osferth turned his head back again, sluggishly.

“How are we supposed to get home now, lord?” he asked, and Uhtred couldn’t find anything else to say. His mind was blank, despair gripping at his tongue. He felt Alfred’s gaze on him again.

“I don’t know,” Uhtred said, as the blue waves danced beneath the gleaming sunlight. He stared at the mountains, the peaks like teeth waiting to rend him apart.

* * *

The longship sailed along the jagged mountains, every man and slave rowing now, oars tearing into the lively, cerulean sea. The waters near the shore were riddled with rocks, reefs slashing out of the frothy waves. The islets grew larger, twisting in their way, the sea breaking like rivers around their bends.

Uhtred rowed along with the others, his arms aching, his wounds twinging red. There were islands everywhere now, low, rocky bluffs, covered with algae, and straggly, dark grass.

_What if we jumped in and swam to one of them?_

Uhtred was an idiot, but not completely, not always. The Northmen would fill them with arrows, or the sea would bash them against the sharp, jagged rocks. Osferth couldn’t swim, not like this, and gods knew if Alfred could either.

_I could drag them. I could protect them._

Uhtred was an idiot, but not always. He chased the thought away, and watched Alfred’s back, as they rowed on and on. The cold wind tore as the sun gleamed, water thundering against the rocks. 

They rowed for what felt like hours. It had to have been hours. They pushed and pulled, Leif and Thorrir holding watch on the twisting prow. It was only after the sun had passed its zenith, the air warming with every breath, did Uhtred see it, a wide channel cut through the peaks, the sea flowing calmy, waves rolling blue into the mountainous land. 

_Is this Alrekstad?_

Osferth sculled feebly, hands gripping pale upon the oar. As the sea birds cawed, the longship rowed into the channel, between the ragged peaks.

_Gods._

The world unfolded in front of them, the land stretching up into the skies. The sea flowed between the rugged mountains – and as the ship sailed down the deep fjord, and into the cold, rocky land, Uhtred could see everything, beneath the sun, vast and thrilling beyond compare. Mountains towered on every side, looming giants over the curving, blue waters. Snow still streaked their summits and gaps, but it was spring here too, even in the north – fields of green crested up the shore, and into the snowy, white-bone rocks.

_Gods, is this what Denmark is like too?_

Uhtred had never seen a world so vast in his life. Beside him, Sihtric rowed quietly but looked around too, eyes wide and dark with wonder.

“How big is this place?” Finan muttered, eyes darting about. Osferth looked around tiredly, and though Uhtred couldn’t see his face, Alfred’s head tilted up to the white-capped mountains too.

They rowed on and on, through the quiet, deep fjord, the Northmen strangely silent now. The wind was briny, oars splashing into the calm blue waves. They passed a group of fat grey seals, sunning on a bank, large black eyes watching them warily.

_Does this place ever end? Do these mountains end?_

Uhtred remembered one of Ravn’s old tales.

_Out of Ymir’s flesh was fashioned the earth, and the mountains made of his bones._

He understood that now, perhaps for the first time. Uhtred could see it all around him, the mountains rising like the white bones of an ancient, dead god. Something stirred in his chest then, something deep in his soul, old and buried, like a snake coiling beneath the earth.

The longship turned left, and carried on that way, meandering through the twisting fjords. They rowed by a small farmstead, a shambled, low longhouse, with a few sheep grazing through the snow-streaked grass.

_Where are we going?_

The mountains on their left began to fall and break. After a time, the longship pulled out of the fjord and into a large, deep bay. The sea was there again, waves rolling in from the horizon and down into the blue gulf.

_We’ve been sailing along the sea the entire time._

The fjords had taken them north, along the shore. Uhtred didn’t know why Thorrir or Leif had led them down that path, but they were here now, in this vast, blue bay. Islands, large and rocky, dotted the blue expense, mountains surrounding them in a snowy half-ring. Seagulls called, and the waves crashed, the wind wild and free.

For a moment, all Uhtred could do was stare around him, at the mountains, at the deep, blue waves – and then he saw it, on the bank of the bay, dark against the bony rocks.

_Alrekstad._

It was a town, a city even, nestled beneath a towering, mountain range. Uhtred could see the palisades even from here, wooden walls wrapping around a busy settlement. Smoke rose into the wind, from a hundred different homes, whispering black against the icy white peaks. As they rowed nearer and nearer, he could make out the sharp wooden roofs, the swathes of colour and cloth in the wind.

“Is that Alrekstad, lord?” Sihtric whispered at him, arms straining as he heaved their oar.

“It has to be. Do you know it?” Uhtred asked in turn. Sihtric shook his head, and why wouldn’t he? In a way, the boy was the same as him. Uhtred couldn’t remember a single story about this Alrekstad, not from Ravn or any other Dane.

_Is this Thorrir’s home?_

It wasn’t hard to believe. The large man sat on the prow and gazed stonily at the settlement. Uhtred had never been in a town like this, and he wondered how different it would be.

_Will they take Alfred somewhere else? Will they leave him here? What are they going to do to us here?_

Uhtred could see the dock now, jutting out from the walls, and with it, an endless march of ships – sails of every colour flapped in the wind, gleaming bright beneath the sunlight. A few of these ships meandered around the coasts, and smaller boats, canoes pulling out to fish. As they approached the dock, Uhtred could see the dark shapes of men and women, walking and bustling about the berth.

_How many people are in this place?_

There was no way they could try to escape in there, not with a hundred Northmen in their way. The wonder of the mountains, of this strange, old land began to wither away in Uhtred’s chest.

“Almost there, men. Keep it up! We’re almost home now,” Leif called, over the strangely quiet ship. Uhtred stared at Alfred’s back, his heart wrenching, as the claws choked around his throat again.

_What am I going to do?_

They pulled up to the port, the sound of the settlement rushing over their heads. The ship moaned as it berthed, and the Northmen all climbed to their feet, hauling at ropes, lifting crates and jumping onto the dock. A rope suddenly bound around Uhtred’s wrists, tearing into his half-healed sores. Halldor and a few others typed up Uhtred’s men too, and hauled them roughly up to their feet.

“Noose them too, Halldor,” Leif ordered, and a rope went around all their necks. It was just loose enough to breathe, with a lead at the end where their captors could pull them like cattle.

_Fuck, fuck-_

Uhtred could feel the panic beginning to twist through his gut again. He looked at Alfred frantically, and the king was already looking back, blue eyes peering uncertainly at him.

“Move, _ergi,_ ” Halldor snarled, a cruel smirk upon his face. He yanked the rope around Uhtred’s neck, and pushed him forward over the ship’s edge.

Uhtred nearly tumbled, his feet thumping against the wooden deck. His legs felt like they were made of sand. The rest of his men, Alfred stumbled down onto the deck too, amidst the lively, bustling port.

_Fuck, how are we supposed to get out of here?_

The dock was full of fishermen and sailors, armored Northmen, bright-clad merchants, hauling their nets and wares. The air smelt of fish and algae, waves lapping beneath at the wooden struts. Their captors hustled, hoisting down the endless crates, scrapes of snow melting beneath their feet.

Finan pressed up against Uhtred’s side, their hands bound helplessly in front of them. Osferth was still on his feet somehow, eyes dazed, and swaying just a little. Uhtred watched him carefully, chest tight.

“Look at this place,” Finan breathed, something like wonder and disdain in his voice. Before them, beyond the port, the walls of Alrekstad rose, its pointed ends stabbing up into the wind.

“Have you ever heard the name Alrekstad?” Uhtred asked Alfred quietly– they were being ignored now, for just a moment, the ship’s men hurrying to off-load all of their supplies. The other three Saxon slaves were bound beside them now, looking around timidly.

Alfred tugged at the rope dangling around his throat, as the seagulls picked near their feet.

“Yes,” he nodded slowly, eyes studying everything, “I’ve heard of its name, several times, back in court. They say a great king lives here.”

“What king?” Uhtred asked, but Halldor caught him now. He smacked him on the back of his head.

“Do you ever fucking shut up?” he growled, and pulled on Uhtred’s rope, dragging him forward and down the dock. Uhtred staggered, and they were all moving now, men pulling them by their ropes, while others hauled at the crates. Leif led Alfred, barely pulling at all, and in front of the group was Thorrir, striding forward now through the bustling port and leading them into Alrekstad.

They marched through a large gate in the wall, draped with thin red-and-gold banners. The guards eyed them as they passed, but Alrekstad opened up to them now, in the shadow of the snowy peaks.

Wide, muddy roads trudged through the bustling town, the ground mushy and wet with melting snow. Wooden huts dotted about, with pointed roofs and bright shields, antler skulls grinning above the heavy doors. Alrekstad was not nearly as big as Winchester, nor as crowded or as crammed – people milled about, through the winding streets, chattering, laughing, their children racing muddy through the slippery mire.

Merchants called from their colourful stalls, goats bleating, chickens clucking as they fluttered. A blacksmith pounded at his anvil, his forge burning hot, spitting flames into the windy, white air.

_If we ran, there could be plenty of places to hide here._

The streets were strewn with straggly bushes and stunted trees. As their group marched up the main road, past the bustling market, Uhtred could smell the smoke and the filth. He caught the scent of roasting meat too, heady and thick, and his stomach growled, begging endlessly.

“Hurry up,” Halldor grumbled, and yanked viciously at the noose, the rope scraping against the back of Uhtred’s neck. Uhtred tripped a little, and then met Alfred’s eye as the king peered back at him, trudging a little ahead, just behind Thorrir and Leif.

_Fuck, where are they taking us?_

His gut twisted, as the cold wind swept through the muddy, lively street. As Osferth limped beside him, he noticed a large longhouse, far away, rising a little above the town. It sat within its own walls, at the end of the main road, it's mighty back up against the jagged mountainside.

_Is that where we’re going?_

Thorrir led them away from the main road, and up through a quieter, side path. They slogged towards a small cottage, draped with hide shields, with smoke curling out of its door. Uhtred noticed some of the townsfolk watching them now, staring surreptitiously at Thorrir.

_Do they know him?_

A raven croaked upon a roof, dread tugging at his heart. As the sun slowly began to descend, as the wind weaved through the creaking streets, Uhtred and his men were dragged forward, into the small, smoky hut.

* * *

They sat on the floor for hours, their backs pressed against the wooden walls. The ground beneath was strewn with coarse straw, rubbing rough through their threadbare clothes. At least it was warm now, within the walls of the small, dark cottage – a fire burned in the hearth, in the middle of the room, throwing smoke and light up to the eaves.

_How much longer are they going to make us wait?_

There were no windows in the one-room house, but through the open door, Uhtred could see that dusk had settled about the town, torches flickering through the violet gloom. Some of the Northmen from the ship were gathered about, walking in and out as the hours passed – Leif was back now, panting a little as he conferred quietly with Thorrir. The latter stood tall, near the smoldering hearth, firelight chasing across his dour face. 

“Why won’t they just tell us what’s happening?” Alfred whispered, as his shoulder brushed against Uhtred’s. While some of their captors lounged about the tables, drinking and muttering by their heavy crates, only Uhtred and his men, and the three Saxon slaves, sat on the floor, still bound. Finan pressed against Uhtred’s other side, Sihtric on the end, and Osferth slumped quietly beside Alfred, trying to blend into the creaking wall.

“You think they’re waiting for a buyer?” Finan asked, brown eyes searching the room carefully. The small hut hummed with quiet voices, a strange unease stirring through the smoky air.

_What the fuck is happening?_

For the past few hours, all Thorrir had done was send men after men out into the town. He had barely left the hut, and every time a man returned, he went straight to Thorrir, whispering, intense. Uhtred had no idea if these men were sending messages, or bringing some news back to Thorrir. He couldn’t understand what was happening, only that it all seemed a little strange, and tense now.

_Why hasn’t he just sold us yet? What the fuck is he planning?_

Alfred burned warm, like a flame against his side. Uhtred stared at the walls, at the door for the hundredth time, but there was still no way to escape, not yet.

_Maybe later, when we’re out there again, there will be a –_

_But gods, what if they took Alfred away now? What if we don’t get another chance?_

As the dark smoke curled through the heavy air, shadows twirling with the warm firelight, Uhtred turned his head a little towards Alfred, his breath tight in his chest.

_What if, what if-_

It was the first time all day he was able to look at Alfred proper, to _feel_ him by his side again – the king sat with his knees folded to his chest, his bound hands resting upon his thighs. They had been sitting together like this for hours, and Alfred’s head was drooping now, almost on his shoulder, his soft, dark hair almost brushing against Uhtred’s chin.

_He’s tired._

They all were, but Uhtred couldn’t stop, not now, not when this could finally be their chance.

A thousand different worries whirled through his head, the same ones from the past few hours –

_But now it’s dusk. It’ll be night soon, and there will be fewer people out there._

Alrekstad was a wolves’ den of Northmen and Danes, but at least it was not the endless sea anymore. Now they had a chance, somewhere to hide, to run, if only to the rocky wilderness.

_In the dark, we could flee. All I need is a moment._

One error from the Northmen, one second of arrogance. Uhtred’s gaze fell on the noose around Alfred’s neck, and the rage writhed beneath his skin, like blistering flames.

_I have to get him out of here._

He wanted to rip that noose off and strangle it around Thorrir’s throat. As the Northmen muttered, Uhtred found his bound hands moving now, through the smoky gloom – without a thought, he reached slowly towards Alfred’s hands, their arms brushing warm against each other. Alfred stiffened, the ropes biting into his pale wrists. He moved his head back a little, shoulders tight.

_Fuck, what –_

Uhtred brushed the back of his fingers against Alfred’s knuckles, and his heart thrashed wild beneath his ribs. The king seemed frozen, as if he barely breathed.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

It was like that night again, beneath the stars, on the silent ship. Uhtred had no control over his hands, the touch of Alfred’s skin racing thrills throughout his veins. In the dark hut, surrounded by their captors, tied and humiliated on the floor, Uhtred stared at their hands, at the brush of their fingers, beneath the flickering, dark firelight.

_I will get you out of here._

He had suddenly so much to say to him.

_And it’s the wrong time, it’s not the place, for fucks sake, just focus, focus-_

Somebody moved towards them, around the other men – it was Leif, the wooden floor creaking beneath his hurried gait. Behind him, Thorrir was scowling at Uhtred and his men now, grey eyes ripping through the hazy smoke.

Uhtred pulled his hands back quickly, his fingers still warm from Alfred’s skin.

_Fuck, fuckfuck-_

“How is he?” Leif asked in English, as he stopped in front of them. His face was drawn unusually tight. He nodded over to Osferth, and then looked back at Uhtred, green eyes dark.

“He’s fine,” Uhtred and Finan chorused together, without even a thought. For a moment, Leif just looked at them, and then he dropped down in front of Osferth, a hand grabbing at his foot. Uhtred surged, heart lurching – but Halldor was there too now, hand on his axe, another Northman right behind him. The other men in the hut gazed over, and there was nothing Uhtred could do anymore.

_Fuckfuckingshit-_

Panic clawed up his dry throat. He could no longer feel the warmth of Alfred’s skin. Osferth looked up at Leif with bright eyes, his upper lip damp with sweat. With gentle, slow hands, the tall man pulled back the robe from Osferth’s leg, revealing the bloodied binding beneath.

“Shit,” Leif cursed, in Norse again. Halldor snorted.

“I told you-”

“Yes, I know, thank you Halldor.”

“Why didn’t you see this earlier?” Thorrir rumbled by the fire – he was near enough to see Osferth’s leg through the smoky gloom. The large man stared at Leif’s back, face grim, as he rubbed his hands over the spitting flames.

_Fuckfuckfuck-_

Uhtred saw Leif’s back straightened just a little more.

“I thought it would heal by itself,” he answered Thorrir, and his green eyes fell on Uhtred again. The meaning behind his words suddenly became clear, as if his voice was echoing through Uhtred’s head.

_I was giving you a chance._

And Uhtred thought maybe that Leif had always known how bad Osferth truly was. Maybe he had been watching them the entire time on the ship. Maybe all the crew knew too, but gave it no real thought now.

_Did Thorrir know? Does it matter?_

The large man glowered through the half-dark. Uhtred leaned a little forward, towards Leif, fear and panic grasping at his tongue.

“All I need to do is drain it,” he sounded almost desperate, to his own ears, “He’s young, he’ll heal-”

“Shut _up_ ,” Halldor groaned, “Let’s just toss him, Thorrir. He’s already ruined.”

“What? No,” another Northman chirped from where he sat on one of their crates, “He has to be least worth something. And where the fuck are you going to toss him? This is Alrekstad – you can’t just toss unwanted slaves into the street.”

“We could kill him,” Bragi offered.

“We could sell him with this lot,” Leif nodded his head to the three Saxon slaves, “At least we would get something out of it then.”

“Yes, but that would mean one less slave for _him_ ,” Thorrir grumbled and clenched his jaw. Up above, the roof groaned as the wind blustered outside, some of its chill seeping through the open door. The fire wavered in the brief silence, shadows dancing about the crowded room.

_Him? Who’s him?_

The men had all stopped talking now, the strange unease growing with every breath. Leif turned Osferth’s leg a little, inspecting the wound. The monk winced, grinding his teeth.

_Gods, just do it already. Say it._

Uhtred watched as Thorrir thought, blood racing.

_Say it. Say it, and I’ll fight. I won’t let you take the monk._

The large man heaved out a heavy sigh.

“No, the plan is the same,” he scowled down at the flames, “We’ll take him up there too.”

“We can’t give him to Harald like this,” Leif replied, looking back a little over his shoulder. The scowl on Thorrir’s face darkened.

“It was your job to look after them. You should have noticed this sooner. You’ll explain to him how you let one of his slaves rot.”

Silence again, as the fire spat, as the walls creaked and the smoke twirled. A muscle jumped at Leif’s jaw, and he looked back at Osferth’s wound, almost cowed.

_Who the fuck is Harald?  
_

Alfred shuffled beside Uhtred, his hands clenching tight.

“One king. 4 warriors. That is what I decided,” Thorrir rumbled into the shadowy room. Leif began to rise back to his feet, when a man suddenly entered the hut.

“Thorrir,” it was Stigr, his woolen dark coat swaying behind him. He was the owner of this cottage, and Uhtred had learnt his name earlier in the day, when he had greeted Thorrir at the door and invited them into his home. He was an older man, with white-grey hair and dark tattoos ringing around his wrinkled neck.

He looked at Thorrir now, through the smoke, as he had from the start, with the steady understanding of an old, remembered friend.

“Stigr, do we have it?” Thorrir called from the hearth. Uhtred’s heart raced beneath his ribs.

Stigr took another step into the room and spoke clearly, announcing it to everyone there.

“Yes, the king has agreed. You can go up to him now."

“And the tributes?” Thorrir asked.

“You will pay it now. At the feast, before the eyes of all.”

Relief washed through the smoky, thick air, rippling out like waves. Leif sunk his head, sighing into his chest. Osferth leaned back against the wall, breathing sharp.

_What the fuck does any of this mean? What tribute? What feast, what?_

“I can’t believe this is fucking working,” Halldor grumbled. Thorrir nodded his head at Stigr – and in that moment, something changed a little about him, as if his shoulders broadened even more. The pensive, silent man from the ship was gone, as was the mocking, cold Dane that had captured them from the woods. He looked like a warrior now about to face his fate.

_Is he taking us to the king?_

Thorrir pulled his hands back from the frolicking flames.

“Let’s go,” he said, “Let’s go meet our king.”

And as the room began to move, as Alfred’s knee bumped against his, Uhtred felt the dread sing beneath his veins. 

* * *

They climbed up the muddy road as it sloped up, towards the great longhouse. Around them, the town had settled with the dusk – there were less people about now, on the shadowy streets, torches curling flames into the dark blue gloom. Uhtred could see warm firelight spilling out from just about every door, voices crashing, laughing ringing as men and women took to their suppers.

_When was the last time we even ate?_

The cold was bitter now, an icy black. As the smell of cooked meat swept with the wind, as the cold stars flickered awake, they passed the warm houses, the drinking men and trudged up to the inner palisade.

They had left the three Saxon slaves behind with others, and now it was a small group that marched up, dragging Uhtred and his men – some of the Northmen still hauled their crates, while Thorrir led them, talking quietly with Stigr. In the half-dark, Uhtred’s plan came to mind again, the streets dark and lonely enough to hide, but as they trudged, he couldn’t see how they could escape even now, the mud sucking at their feet.

_Osferth can’t run._

The monk staggered as Bragi pulled him by the noose, his legs still too weak. Finan and Sihtric marched quietly, the former scowling, and near the front, Alfred trudged behind Leif, his grey robes tangling through the mud. Uhtred stared at his grey-clad back as the wind tore, a shiver wracking through his body. He had to wait. Fuck, this wasn’t the time-

_But what’s coming? What’s this king going to do to us?_

They trudged through the dark. Uhtred felt the claws grapple up his throat, until finally, at long last, they reached the end of the main path.

The great longhouse loomed before them now, behind its wooden walls, the icy peaks soaring above, and blotting out half the stars. The walls towered as they approached, the wooden logs ringing around, dividing the longhouse from the rest of the town. Guards walked its perimeter, torches burning about its sharp, stabbing tops. Long red-and-gold standards draped a large gate, wavering dark in the biting wind.

The guards watched them as they neared, armors glinting dully in the firelight – but with one quick nod from Stigr, they let them through, the muddy road taking them up to the longhouse.

_Why would they do that? Can anyone just walk in here?_

Embers spat into the darkening skies. Within the walls now, Uhtred could hear the sound of music, of voices and laughter crashing through the wind. Up above, sitting on a jagged outcrop, the longhouse’s doors were wide open, warm light spilling out into the frosty black. Shadows moved within, figures twirling, the smell of meat and ale tumbling out with the light.

_Is that the feast then?  
_

Uhtred’s gut squeezed, his heart beating wild. He clenched his tied fists in front of him, and watched Alfred’s back as their group trudged up the stairs and into the bright hall.

Warmth flooded over them, like a surging wave, sinking down into their bones – the hall stretched before their eyes, vast and golden, brimming at the seams with life. In every corner, beneath the high, wooden beams swarmed men and women, feasting, laughing, the tables strewn with platters of meat and bread, pitches full of golden ale. It was clear that the feasting had just begun, teeth tearing into meat as the lutes played. Great troughs of fire marched down the middle, meat crackling and spitting above the blistering flames.

_Gods._

Uhtred had never been in a hall like this – nothing in England could even compare to its size and grandeur. Dark red carpets spread beneath their muddy feet, while giant antler skulls adorned the engraved pillars.

_Not even Winchester looked like this. Not even Alfred’s throne room._

Or maybe it was simply the Dane in Uhtred who looked with wide, wondrous eyes. In front of him, Alfred looked about too, silent, as their group trudged through the smoky hall.

It was a while before anyone truly noticed them, the Northmen lost to their ale and song – the music carried on, but the chatter began to dim as eyes found them, growing wide and astonished.

_Do they know them? Do they know Thorrir?_

Uhtred could see guards pressing a little closer, around the vast hall. As the crowd began to stare openly, as the music began to fall, Thorrir led them to the front, wood creaking beneath their feet.

A great table sat upon a dais, thicker and stronger than any in the room – behind it, upon the patterned walls, the same red-and-gold banners draped, hanging limp over dark braziers that burned red, scorching flames. The table was full of a sumptuous feast, and behind it sat a row of men and women, looking at them now as Thorrir stopped their group before the wooden stairs.

_Fuck._

The music died with a strangled whimper. The hall was quiet now, smoke curled black. The air felt tight, as if everyone was holding their breath, amidst the crackling flames.

_Is there going to be a fight?_

The guards moved closer still, towards their group. In front of them, a man rose from a large chair, in the middle of the table.

He was a handsome man, strikingly so, in a rich, light blue tunic. Braids of dark blonde hair were tied back from his temples, while the rest tumbled freely onto his shoulders. His face was freckled, his eyes sharp, as grey as gleaming blades.

_Is this the king?_

The man’s face was grim, dark tattoos swirling up his arms.

For a moment, no one said a word, the hall silent, frozen between the smoke and flames. Uhtred watched with bated breath as Thorrir stared up at the kingly man, the wind howling above, through the eaves.

_If they start fighting, we could escape._

Uhtred could use the chaos to push his way to Alfred, to haul him and his men away. He stared at Alfred’s back, his body taut, ready, blood racing red.

_Do it. Just kill each other already._

In the silence, Thorrir finally took a step forward. He looked at the striking man at the table, and bowed his head a little, voice ringing throughout the hall.

“King Harald.”

The fires spat. Uhtred felt his heart thunder. King Harald stared at Thorrir – and then with a clear voice, and with the slightest smirk on his face, he replied.

“Hello again, Uncle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, ok, I know you guys...I KNOW there wasn't much Uhtred/Alfred, but like the story, and then, things happen, and then...I'm sorry yeah? IM TRYING PLEASE. 
> 
> Anyway, one important note, you guys. I really hope it's not confusing, but yeah, Leif, Thorrir are all "Vikings" from Norway, and so will be referred from here on out as Northmen. Historically, the Saxons started calling all Scandinavians who came a-viking to England as Danes, mainly because the majority of them were in fact from Denmark. Most Norwegians seemed to have sailed elsewhere, but those who went to England were still called Danes. 
> 
> The show doesn't really that distinction, but it doesn't make sense to have this fic set in Norway and still call everyone a Dane. It is believed Danes and Norwegians all spoke the same language, had almost the same culture, so just please imagine they are the same as Ragnar, Haesten, etc. I gave the Northmen a slight accent to show some regional differences. 
> 
> Again, definitely not an expert in all of this and I hope I'm not offending everyone. I hope this is clear and I'm not muddling it up for you guys. 
> 
> ANYWAY, thank you so much for your kudos and comments. I love every single one, they make me so happy! Thank you so much, and stay safe out there!


	10. The King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One quick note guys: I know the show doesn't really make a big deal about languages but sometimes I'm a stickler so...everyone from Scandinavia, Danes, Norwegians all most likely spoke Old Norse. I've changed all references to the "Danish" language to "Norse" as it makes more sense. Since they are in Norway now, please just take it that everyone is speaking Norse guys, unless indicated otherwise. Finan and Osferth know very little Norse, Alfred is adequate, and Uhtred and Sithric of course speak fluently. Ok, I'll stop now. Enjoy!
> 
> Warning: Slight insinuation of sexual coercion

The air felt thick and heavy, as if the flames themselves had stopped flickering. Up above, the wind howled, through the gaps in the wood, but below, among the shadows and wary, wide eyes, all was silent, frozen and still, men and women taut, ready for a fight.

Uhtred could feel the tension choke tight around his throat, and he _ached_ for someone to do something, to start swinging so he could swing back too.

_Come on. Fucking fight, you arseholes._

Thorrir stood tall and still, like a mountain. He stared up at King Harald, his shoulders tight. Just behind him, Uhtred could see Leif tightened his grip around Alfred’s lead, shifting, like a wolf, on the balls of his feet.

_Come on._

Up upon the dais, King Harald watched them with steely eyes. The smoke curled around him, and his hair gleamed like dark gold in the firelight.

_Fuck, come-_

King Harald heaved out a sigh.

“I have to admit, Uncle,” he said in Norse, voice ringing clear throughout the hall, “I never thought I would see you again, at least not here. I figured you would just die out there, on one of your raids.” There was something a little wicked about the way he spoke, the smirk still twisting at the corner of his lips. His grey eyes danced now, and Uhtred couldn’t quite read him, silver rings glinting on his fingers.

_Does it matter if Thorrir is his uncle? Fight him. Kill him._

Uhtred’s eyes darted back to Alfred, the king standing still and staring up at Harald.

_Come on. Come on._

Thorrir rumbled into the silence.

“I never thought I would ever see you again too, lord.”

“You didn’t even come back when Guthrom died,” the smirk from Harald’s lips ebbed a little, “Your _brother_ , Thorrir. Surely news must have reached you even wherever you were – Ireland? England?”

“Both, lord,” Thorrir shuffled a little, “and I grieved my brother in my own way.”

“And yet, you didn’t return to your king. To offer counsel in Guthrom’s stead.”

“I didn’t think it would be wanted.”

“Or you’re still too proud to bow your head,” something cold and dark flashed across Harald’s face. His grey eyes stabbed like cold, steel blades as he reached down to the table and drew up a drinking horn. A servant rushed over to fill it up with brimming, golden ale. The silence dragged, as the fires crackled, echoing up to the wooden beams.

_Are they even going to fight?_

The guards were still close enough, hands ready on their hilts. Around Uhtred, his captors were tensed and silent, huddling closer together, faces wary. They had set down their crates and stood with their backs to each other, hands hovering over their own weapons. Halldor pulled tight at Uhtred’s noose, as Osferth wavered, bumping shoulders. Sihtric shifted on his feet, Finan pushed close to him, both ready, shoulders tight.

_Is this some kind of weird stand-off? What does Thorrir even want with this man?_

Thorrir breathed out a quiet sigh, his shoulders sinking just a little.

“I would not have come here if it was still that way,” and his voice was quiet now, almost sincere, betraying some emotion that Uhtred had never heard from him before. King Harald raised one slim, fair eyebrow.

“Courteous, Uncle. Almost _servile_ ,” the king sneered, and he gulped down a mouthful of ale, “Has England really changed you that much?”

Thorrir was as stone.

“It has been 8 years.”

“Yes, 8 years among Christians. That would surely ruin anyone,” Harald huffed, “Is that why you have come home now to grovel at my feet? Have you grown weak, Uncle? Have you lost your appetite?”

Silence again, and the air seemed to squeeze, like claws choking around every throat. A child cried somewhere, among the silent crowd, and was quickly hushed as the shadows leapt.

_3 steps. I can reach Alfred in 3 steps._

Uhtred’s eyes darted between Alfred and Harald, heart pounding. Harald’s smirk twisted, cutting and cruel upon his handsome, freckled face.

“I missed my home,” Thorrir rumbled, blank and careful now, “and my family. I missed my family.” Harald shook his head.

“There is no one left but you and me, Thorrir. Well, besides my children. And Leif,” he turned his gaze onto the man behind Thorrir, his grin widening, “Leif Wolfsgrin! Still loyal as a dog, I see.”

“Cousin,” Leif replied, cold as ice.

"Yes, but not quite," Harald jibed, and took another mouthful of golden ale. A large grey dog slunk up to the dais, the only living thing moving in the dark smoke. Uhtred felt eyes on him now, through the taut silence, and he followed it, up to the high table.

On either side of Harald, seating along the table, were men and women, wrapped in furs and fine tunics. They were silent too, like everyone else, staring at Thorrir warily – but only one of them was looking at Uhtred, pale blue eyes gashing through the wavering dark.

It was a woman, pale as the winter’s snow, with dark hair flowing like the pitch-black night. She sat right beside Harald, draped in dark furs, and she was beautiful, unbelievably so. There was something utterly captivating about her, dark and mysterious, something _strange_. Ice blue eyes stared at Uhtred, as if she could see him entire, right down to his very bones.

_Like Iseult could._

Uhtred swallowed, gut turning, and looked back quickly to Alfred. The strangest sense of guilt stirred through his veins, as he felt her eyes on him still, piercing through his skin.

_What the fuck is this place?_

Thorrir was talking again, pulling Uhtred back to the weird stand-off.

“I came to make amends,” he held his head high, “I came to-”

“Beg for my forgiveness?” Harald mocked.

“Yes,” Thorrir folded his hands before him. Everything about him was careful now, measured and tact before the wooden steps. Uhtred could only imagine what he was thinking, as Harald scoffed, cold fury flashing across his face again.

“You’re the one who left, Uncle,” he handed his drinking horn to a servant, something dangerous in his voice, “All you had to do was bow to me, swear to me as your king, and I would have left you alone. You would still have your lands. Fuck, I would have even given you Rognland, after everything you have done for me.”

“I know. I was wrong.”

“You were proud. You _are_ proud. And now you come back to me, after all these years, to beg?”

“I want to come home.”

“ _Why_?” Harald bit, his voice like ice, slashing through the smoky warmth. The silence gaped, like a dark chasm. Uhtred still felt that strange woman’s eyes on him – but his focus was on Harald now, every inch of him ready to strike, like a venomous snake.

_End it already._

Uhtred looked at Alfred again, his back still and draped with flickering shadows. The air choked, and Thorrir breathed out, slow and cautious.

“Because that is what your mother would have wanted. My sister,” he looked up at Harald, voice loud enough for all the hall to hear, “Because there is-”

Thorrir took another breath. He swallowed, and it was as if he was forcing the words out, strange on his tongue.

“Because I was wrong. Because you are my king. Because the gods whisper in my ear, and the Norns spin so in my dreams. I have spent all these years in exile trying to find a way to win back your faith. Because, because you are my king, and I was wrong, nephew.”

The fires spat within their dark braziers. Harald stared at Thorrir, unflinching as steel. The large, grey dog prowled beneath the high table, and sniffed at Harald’s feet.

For the longest of breath, no one said anything at all, until finally, Harald allowed a little smirk.

“Is that all?”

“I have gifts,” Thorrir’s shoulders sagged, and he looked back a little over his shoulder – the men around Uhtred moved now, hoisting the crates and hauling them forward to the base of steps. They drew their axes, and the guards around them tensed even more – but the blades fell upon the crates, ripping them open, wood cracking as its splintered into the air.

“Riches from England and Ireland,” Thorrir announced loudly, and Uhtred could see the crates were all brimming with gleaming gold and silver. Murmurs echoed through the crowd as more crates were open, the firelight bouncing off the precious metals.

_Shit._

Uhtred suddenly understood everything that was happening.

_Tributes. Gifts._

He pushed against the ropes around his wrists, but it was too late now, they never had a chance. Up on the dais, Halldor gave out a half-laugh, eyes wandering about the luminous treasures.

“Is that all for me, Uncle?” he jested.

“There’s more,” and Thorrir swept his hand back, towards their group – Halldor yanked at Uhtred’s noose, and he and his men were all dragged forward now, out of the huddle and into the open. Leif pulled Alfred a little ahead of them, Sihtric and Finan bumping into each other, and Osferth stumbled a little, but it made no difference, Thorrir was talking again.

“As tribute, I give you four Saxon warriors, as slaves won in battle,” his voice thundered now, up into the beams, and the crowd murmured and chattered openly. Uhtred felt his heart slam, pounding and racing into his mouth.

_Shit, fuck, fuckfuckfuck-_

Thorrir bellowed one last time.

“And most of all, I give you this,” Leif handed him Alfred’s lead, and Thorrir pulled the king forward to his side, “I give you King Alfred of Wessex, king of all of England.”

The chatter swell and rose like the sea, gasps rippling across the hall.

_No, no, fuck-_

No, this was worse. This was far, far worse than Uhtred thought it would be. Panic, despair surged up his chest, and fuck, he had to do something, anything, _fuck-_

_Fuck, shit, I have to get him out-_

He made to surge forward, fear writhing – but Leif was there now, somehow, taking his lead away from Halldor, and clutching at the back of his tunic. The tall man pulled the noose a little tighter, and murmured in Uhtred’s ear.

“Calm down, you idiot. You’re only going to get yourself killed.”

_Fuck, fuckfuckshit-_

Uhtred caught Finan’s eye, his friend panicked too, his face drawn tight. Osferth and Sihtric were frozen, and Uhtred could only see Alfred’s back so he had no idea what expression was on the king’s face now. Up on the dais, Harald was silent, amidst the rush of murmurs, shock and wonder etched on his face, completely caught off-guard.

_Gods, just leave him alone –_

Uhtred saw that strange, dark-haired woman by Harald’s side look at Alfred too – for just a moment, and then her gaze was back on Uhtred, shadows flickering about her all-seeing eyes.

_Shit, fuck, what do I do-_

Harald raised a hand, and the hall hushed again, the wind howling as the walls creaked and moaned. With slow, careful steps, he walked around the high table and down the wooden stairs. He looked Alfred up and down, eyes wide with glimmering glee.

_He looks… thrilled._

Uhtred wanted to move, to fight, do _anything._ He saw Alfred raise his chin a little and meet Harald’s gaze, noble even from the back.

“This, this is him?” Harald stopped a step above Thorrir and Alfred, “ _This_ is the king of England?”

Thorrir nodded, eyes fixed on Harald’s face.

“I swear it, by all the gods,” he tightened his grip around Alfred’s lead, “We’d tracked him for months, spied on him. And then, when it was time, we fought his army in the woods. We’ve captured many slaves, but this I give you. The great King Alfred of England.”

_Spied? For months?_

Uhtred wanted to hurl, claws grasping up his throat.

_Were they in Winchester? Were they in the palace, fuck-_

“Spied?” Harald raised an eyebrow.

“One of his _lords_ shared information with us,” Thorrir shrugged a little, “We take his king, and they have their throne. It matters not.”

“I disagree,” Harald grinned, “Now, that sounds like a fucking good story.”

Uhtred’s heart froze, as the words echoed back through his head.

_They have the throne._

Claws crushed.

_Fuck-_

It was a coup. It was a fucking coup. Horror gaped in his chest as he realized what had happened, what they had done to Alfred now.

_Someone had betrayed him in Winchester. One of his fucking lords –_

_Someone had told Thorrir where Alfred would be._

Heart pounding, he stared at Alfred, the king frozen in place, his back pulled stiff and taut. Uhtred still couldn’t see his face, but it was as if he wasn’t breathing at all, shadows trailing down his still, grey robes. 

_Fuck, fuck-_

Uhtred should have been there. He knew, after Odda, he _knew-_

_Who was it? Who fucking did this to you?_

Rage seared, thrashing wild through his veins.

As the fury consumed him now, writhing like flames, surging up his throat, Harald was talking again, grey eyes raking over Alfred’s still frame.

“Is this the one they said defeated one of Ragnar Lothbrok’s sons? What was his name again, Uba, Ubbe?”

“Ubba, lord,” Thorrir replied.

“And Guthrum too, yes? Guthrum the Unlucky,” Harald moved a little, inspecting Alfred like he was cattle, “ _This_ is the king that keeps defeating our kin?”

“Yes.”  
  
“But he’s so fucking… _skinny_ ,” Harald scrunched his nose, and murmurs of laughter rippled out across the smoky hall.

_Fuck you._

Uhtred could choke on the twisting flames, Leif tightening his grip on the back of his tunic. Osferth swayed on his feet, and Finan fidgeted as Harald grinned again, eyes dancing bright.

“Pretty though, I suppose. A little bit. Tell me, what is your name?” he stared at Alfred, and the king stared back, unflinching, chin raised.

“I am Alfred,” his voice cut through the smoke, in Norse, steady and quiet, cold as a blade. Harald’s grin widened.

“Ah, you speak our tongue! Good, then you heard everything. Tell me, is it true? Are you the king of England?”

“Of Wessex,” Alfred’s voice was cool.

“Yes, but it was you that defeated Ubba? Last summer, we had men return to Alrekstad with tales of capturing a king’s daughter. Was that _your_ daughter? How is she? I heard that there was a great battle for her.”

Alfred said nothing, his shoulders tight. Uhtred _still_ couldn’t see his face, gods. In the silence, Harald reached down and touched the noose around Alfred’s neck, his grin dimming for a moment, just a little.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” something sharp edged in Alfred’s voice now. Harald heard it too, for his grin turned wicked, as if he relished every moment of this. Uhtred’s heart slammed as Harald moved his hand up from Alfred’s noose, and gripped his chin. He turned Alfred’s head, side to side, studying him.

_Fuck you, fuck, get your fucking hands off of him-_

“This is a fine gift, Uncle,” Harald grinned up at Thorrir, as he pulled back his hand. He looked past Alfred then, at Uhtred and his men.

“I suppose these are your warriors too, King Alfred?”

“Yes,” Alfred’s reply was quick, almost insistent, “They are my most trusted men.” And Uhtred didn’t know why that mattered, especially since it wasn’t true – but somehow it did, it was the right thing to say. Harald pulled back a little, satisfied, his hair glimmering like burnished bronze.

“Then, it is perfect!” he thundered into the hall, voice shattering up to the wooden beams. He moved towards Thorrir and gripped his shoulder, looking down at him from upon the step. His grin was wide, shadows flickering about his handsome face. He looked out to the hall, over Thorrir’s head.

“For years, you have slumbered in the cold, Uncle,” and it was a performance now, Uhtred could see that, Harald’s voice loud enough for all to hear, “But now, you have come home, and with such gifts! With the king of England! You have proven your worth in Odin’s eye.”

Harald waved a hand, and servants rushed over with two drinking horns full of ale. Thorrir took one, while Harald held his over his head, grey eyes gleaming through the dark smoke.

“Today, we feast not only to celebrate the birth of my daughter, but the return of our greatest friend!” Harald boomed to the crowd, “Let it be known your king offers mercy to all that deserves it. So let us drink, and let us feast! Let us get drunk off our arses! Tonight, we sing and fuck, for the glory of the gods!”

The crowd erupted, roaring as Harald tipped back the horn and drank. Hails of laughter and glee crashed, and men cheered, ale spilling over their hands. The music started again, and the guards were pulling back now, men and women capering around once again. People began to surge forward towards Thorrir’s group, greeting them heartily, peeking down at the silver-laden crates.

_What the fuck is happening? What, all forgiven just like that?_

Harald laughed as he clapped Thorrir’s shoulder.

“Come, you must all be famished! I want to hear _everything_ ,” he swept his arm back towards his high table. Uhtred caught the gaze of the strange, dark-haired woman once again, her hair like tumbling rivers of black.

_What are they going to do to us?_

“Perhaps my lord will allow us to wash first,” Thorrir rumbled over the raucous din.

“Of course,” Harald said, and then he turned back to Alfred, “And you, my king! You must join us as well. You and your men, we must get you into something warm. Edda, get your arse over here!”

Uhtred felt Leif’s grip on his tunic slackened, as Thorrir frowned up at Harald.

“You would have them join your feast? Lord, they are slaves-”

“Yes, Uncle, _my_ slaves now. My gifts,” Harald’s eyes flashed back to Alfred, “No, you must join us, Alfred. I want to know everything. But first, fuck, hurry up, Edda!”

An older, stout woman came from the side, moving quickly. Her face was harsh, and she bowed her head, eyes flinty black as stone. 

“My lord,” she greeted.

“Take them, get them washed,” Harald nodded his head at Uhtred and his men too, “Then get them dressed into something clean. And _hurry_ , Edda. I want to get drunk with our guests.”

“Of course, my lord,” Edda nodded her head. Before Uhtred knew it, servants were reaching for them, their faces blank and pale – hands took their nooses’ leads away from their captors, and began to pull them over to the right. Leif let Uhtred go, a slight, timid man taking up his lead and pulling. There were guards too now, ushering them.

_No, wait-_

Uhtred looked at Alfred, and a servant was leading him too, just behind Finan.

_Where are they taking us?_

The hall sang, flutes twirling merry music into the crackling flames. Uhtred lost sight of Leif and his crew as the servants dragged him and his men, and Alfred through the crowd and towards a side doorway. He could still see Harald steering Thorrir up the steps, his jovial chatter lost in the clamour.

_What the fuck am I going to do?_

The smoke twirled through the twisting shadows. Bodies bumped against them, voices crashing through the hall. The strange, dark-haired woman at the high table was still looking at Uhtred as he stumbled away into the dark.

* * *

The servants and guards dragged them down a long, dark corridor, adjacent to the smoky, warm hall – here, the shadows pooled, between the flickering torches, twisting, carved pillars arching up to the eaves. They could still hear the hall, for it was only a wall away, the sound of music and laughter crashing through, but as they moved down the passageway, little rooms began to emerge, between the snaking columns.

Heavy cloth curtains hung over the doorways now, muffling out the raucous revelry. Footsteps shuffled, axes clinking as they were led to a small room, near the end of the narrow hallway.

_Maybe there’s a way out here._

Uhtred could feel the cold shadows brushing, sinking into his skin. Hands pulled, and they stumbled into a small, dark room, the rushes damp beneath their feet.

_Fuck, fuck, I hate everything about this._

A servant rushed forward with a torch, and lit up another near the back wall. Firelight sputtered, and Uhtred looked about the small room – it was bare, and cold, with benches on the sides, and a single trough of water right in the middle. Finan and Sihtric were shoved forward, Osferth brushing against Uhtred’s back. Servants pulled Alfred through the draped doorway, the dim firelight chasing about his pale face.

“What is this?” Finan asked, choppily, in Norse, his voice too loud in the cold, quiet dark. One of the guards smacked his head.

“Shut up,” he grouched, and more servants bustled in, hands full of clothes, and little, woven baskets.

“Hurry, set them down,” Edda ordered them, for she had followed them too, her face even sterner in the wavering murk. She turned her cold glare onto Uhtred and his men now, her voice clipped and cold, like the dark.

“Strip. Wash quickly,” she nodded her head to the trough of water. The servants hurried out while some of the guards still lingered with them in the washroom – for that was what it was, a washroom, for the servants and thralls, water black and still in its holder.

_Gods, they actually want us to wash._

It felt strange, somehow, to do something so ordinary, in this place, in the dark, in this den of wolves, roars of laughter echoing through the creaking, wooden walls. For a moment, no one said anything at all, the guards useless, their faces dull and bored – and then Alfred raised his bound hands and stared right at Edda.

“I’m afraid we’re going to need our hands for that,” he said. A frown twisted at the older woman’s lips, and she indicated so to the hulking guards. Blades swished, and the ropes fell from their wrists, blood racing back into Uhtred’s aching hands.

_Thank the gods._

Without pause, he grabbed the noose around his neck and wrenched it off, chucking it down onto the damp ground. Alfred and his men followed suit, and the guards didn’t care, sheathing their axes, and trailing back out to the dark hallway. Osferth stumbled a little as he rubbed at his wrists. Alfred brushed his fingers against his neck.

“ _Strip_ ,” Edda bit, and there was nothing else to be done now. With a huff, Uhtred began to undress, yanking off his shirt. His men did the same, moving through the dark, clothes rustling. In the half-light, Uhtred could see Osferth moving sluggishly, fingers clumsy, and he wanted to help-

_But no, fuck. No. I can't let them know._

Harald had barely looked at Uhtred and his men earlier, had barely noticed Osferth - but it was only a matter of time, really, before he found out about Osferth's leg. Uhtred didn't know if Thorrir was telling him about it now. He didn't like the way Edda looked at them, eyes beady and sharp, like a hawk's. 

_If she saw his wound now, she would tell Harald. She would let him know he was...ruined._

Anger writhed in his veins, teeth grinding.

_Useless. I’m so fucking useless._

He shoved his pants off, and chucked it down too, the cloth filthy and worn. He could feel the dirt on him now, layers of it caking his skin, as he stood there in the dark, in just his undergarment. The wind moaned as it slithered through the wooden walls, the cold grappling, gnawing at his bones. Uhtred shuddered, as he kicked his shoes off, his wounds aching as they stretched.

_Fuck this. Fuck this place._

Osferth staggered out of his robe, the bandage dark against his pale leg. Finan and Sihtric were still stripping down too, eyes darting about, wary, and Alfred –

_Shit._

Alfred had his back to them now, facing a dark corner, the firelight flickering as he pulled his mucky robe over his head. His back arched, muscles rippling, his bare skin pale and smooth in the shadowy light.

_Fuck-_

Uhtred felt his breath catch, his heart stopping still. The king dropped his robe, still wearing his pants, and Uhtred could do nothing but stare at him, eyes raking over every inch of bare skin. His mind went blank.

_Wait, fuck-_

He had only ever seen Alfred like this once before, years ago, at his coronation – he followed the lines of his back, the soft dips and curves, firelight brushing like fingers upon his skin. Alfred thumbed hesitantly at his pants, and Uhtred felt the heat pool down to his gut. His cock stirred, heart pounding, he just wanted to _touch-_

_No, nononononono-_

Uhtred turned away, blood roaring in his ears. He stared down to the filthy, damp floor.

_No , nono, what am I thinking, fuck-_

What the hell was he doing? What was he _doing_?

_That was nothing, just nothing, I’ve never seen him like that before, that’s all._

He could hear the rustling of cloth but he didn’t dare look up anymore, tilting his body away into the dark. He willed himself to calm down.

_Fuck, this is not the time. We’re fucking trapped, this isn’t-_

Edda breathed out a heavy sigh.

“Go on, then. Are you children? Wash yourself,” she snapped, and Uhtred heard his men and Alfred move forward slowly towards the trough. Without looking up too much, Uhtred moved towards it too, the water gleaming like black, thick oil.

He dipped his hand into it and it stung like ice. Finan handed him a basket from the bench, filled with dried birch for scrubbing, and a small cloth. They washed in silence, water splashing in the dark.

_Fuck, shit, don’t look at him. Never look at him._

“There are clothes behind you on the benches. Quickly now,” Edda said. They dried themselves, shivering and grabbed at their new clothes.

As Uhtred laced up his new breeches, he finally allowed himself to look up at Alfred again – the king pulled a white, thick tunic over his head, his pants already on.

_Good. Thank the gods._

He could breathe a little easier again. They all dressed quickly now, into the thick tunics and pants, the wool warm and soft against their skin.

_Why would Harald give us such nice clothes?_

It felt strange to be wearing something else, something clean after the past two weeks. Uhtred’s boots felt snug and warm around his feet, the tunic brushing against his tender wounds.

_Aren’t we supposed to be his slaves?_

He plunged his hand into the icy water again and rinsed his face once more. As the water hit, he suddenly remembered one more thing and dived back quickly to his filthy, old clothes on the floor.

“Hurry up,” Edda barked, her voice bouncing off the walls. Out of the corner of his eye, Uhtred could see Osferth still struggling with his pants. He focused on his old tunic now, hands searching.

_Fuck, where is it, where is it-_

He found Alfred’s grey rag still tied around the sleeve, stiff and stained with dried blood.

_Thank fuck._

He had almost lost it, left it behind here in the dirt, and it didn’t even-

_Fuck, it doesn’t make any sense._

Uhtred traced his fingers down the grimy cloth. Without thinking, he untied it from around the sleeve and pulled it away, the cloth pale as death.

_It’s just a piece of rag._

Alfred’s rag. Alfred’s hands that had torn it from his robe and bound it around Uhtred’s wound, as he laid unconscious in the cage. The wound on his arm had mostly scabbed over, and he didn’t need the bandage anymore – but he couldn’t just _leave_ it, his heart panging as he stared down at the cloth. It was just a slip of nothing in the flickering dark. A little piece of cloth that could crumble away.

_He gave this to me. He, he-_

Uhtred felt like an idiot, claws closing around his throat. 

“You. In the back. Hurry up,” Edda called. Uhtred rose back to his feet, clutching at the rag. He turned his back a little, away from everyone’s eyes and very quickly tied the grey rag into a knot on his leather necklet. He fastened it right beside his small amulet of Thor’s hammer, and hid them both back within his new tunic. Alfred’s grey rag brushed against his bare chest, and his heart wrenched again, beating black.

_Why the fuck did I just do that?_

He turned back to the others as footsteps echoed down the hallway now. A new servant appeared at the doorway, a young woman with long, red hair.

“Edda,” she greeted, and the older servant scowled at her.

“What is it now?”

“Lady Snaefrid has requested we take one of them to the healer. This one,” the young woman nodded at Osferth. The room was still for a breath, a moment of confusion. Uhtred frowned.

“A healer?”

“What are they saying, lord?” Finan asked in English.

“Be _quiet_ ,” Edda snapped at them, and then she glowered at Osferth, eyes stabbing through the dark, “Fine, take him. Hurry with it now.”

Two guards moved into the small room again, and around Osferth.

_Wait, shit, no-_

“No, no wait, where are you taking him?!” Uhtred surged forward, hands free now, heart pounding – but a guard pushed him back, hands shoving at his chest. Sihtric and Finan moved too, startled, but there were too many guards barring the doorway.

“Where the fuck are you taking him?” Finan snapped in English, enraged, but no one would fucking answer them. The guards grabbed at Osferth’s arms and pulled him out of the door, the monk stumbling in their grip as he looked back frantically.

“ _Wait_ ,” Alfred began, but Osferth was gone now, dragged away back up the dark hallway. Uhtred tried to shove forward again, but the guards pushed him back, his legs hitting against the water trough. Blood roared in his ears. Fear clawed up his throat.

_No, no, they can’t take him-_

“Try that again, and these men will kill you. Do you understand?” Edda glared.

“Where are you taking him?” Uhtred snarled, rage thrashing through his veins. He could feel Alfred move a little closer behind him, almost like a hand brushing at his back, trying to calm him. Sihtric whispered in Finan’s ear, translating. Edda’s face was as harsh as a storm.

“To the healers, boy. Are you deaf?”

The young red-haired servant had gone with Osferth, and Uhtred could still hear their footsteps echoing away into the dark. A roar from the feast crashed through the wooden walls, peals of laughter dancing through the flickering black. Uhtred gritted his teeth, heart thundering.

“And where the fuck is that? Who said he needed a healer?” his voice sound frantic to his own ears. 

“If Lady Snaefrid says he needs a healer, then that is what he needs,” Edda bit, “You are not in a position to question anything.”

“But will he be back?” Alfred asked.

“That remains to be seen. Now enough of this. We must head back.”

Before Uhtred could even say anything else, the guards were moving them again, pushing and hauling them out of the dark washroom.

_Gods, gods, where is he?_

Uhtred and the others stumbled out back into the narrow hallway, and it was still dark, the glow from the raucous feast pouring in from far down the corridor. He couldn’t see Osferth at all, and as they passed the small, dark rooms, he tried desperately to find him, to see even a glimpse of him.

_Did they take him out through the hall? There’s not even another door out of here. Where the fuck is he?_

His mind spun, panic grasping at his throat.

_Fuck, shit, fuck._

They reached the end of the hallway, and the guards pushed them back out into the smoky, large hall. The warmth of the fires enveloped them again, the noise wrapping around them, loud and boisterous. The feast had gotten livelier now, in the short time they had spent washing up – the crowd was wilder, singing and dancing, dresses twirling. There were so many people here, capering between the crackling flames, an endless whirl of bodies, and as the smell of cooked meat stirred through the air, as the music rushed up to the beams, Uhtred tried to search the crowd for Osferth, heart hurdling.

_They must have taken him through here._

The guards pulled them a little forward, hands clenching firm upon their arms – and then Harald was there again, his handsome face bright with joy and brimming glee.

“Alfred!” He cheered, and rushed down the steps, his hair gleaming like dancing gold. He moved quick, and light on his feet. His hands were on Alfred before Uhtred could even think, grinning delightfully down at him.

“Come, come, you must sit with me,” he began to pull Alfred up the stairs, towards the dais, “I’ve forgotten how droll Uncle Thorrir can be. He’s giving such a dreary account of your kingdom. You must come and liven it up. Come, sit with me!”

Alfred stumbled after him, quiet and unsure. He threw a quick glance back at them, and Uhtred surged forward.

_Fuck, shit, waitwaitwait-_

The guards pulled him back, but Harald noticed, of course, he saw everything, grey eyes dancing, clever and quick.

“And my friends, please! Don’t stand on my account!” he waved his hand back towards the crowd, “There’s a table already, set just for you. Go, eat, and drink everything. The feast is yours to enjoy as well!”

Uhtred opened his mouth to say something, but Harald had already turned his back on them, pulling Alfred up to the bustling high table.

_No, shit-_

Alfred looked back at Uhtred, eyes bright and wide. Harald threw his arm around the king’s shoulder, chatter lost to the endless din.

_No, no, I stay with him._

The guards pulled them back from the dais and through the tumbling crowd. Uhtred tried frantically to keep his eye on Alfred, heart screaming – and with just a few steps, they stopped at a table, a little away from the dais. It was just like every other table in the hall, not too long and laden with food. The seats were empty though, cups full of ale and plates stacked with meat.

“Is this meant for us?” Sihtric muttered, and the guards pushed them into the seats, with little care or grace. The armoured men backed away, giving them plenty of room, but never too far, never out of their grasp.

_What, do they just expect us to eat? Like we’re guests, and not their slaves?_

The crowd swirled around them, eyes watching as the music twirled and spun to the beams. Up on the dais, Uhtred could see Harald shuffling Alfred down onto a seat beside him, a new chair shoved between his throne and where Thorrir sat now – the large Northman quietly gnawed at a lamb’s leg, his face souring for a moment as Alfred sat.

_Fuck, I need to get to him._

But how the hell was he supposed to do it? How was he supposed to move now, with all eyes on them? Uhtred had no idea why Harald was treating them like this, where Osferth had even gone – but if he tried anything now, if he tried to fight back, run, grab Alfred-

_They will kill us. They will hack us down before we reach the steps._

He needed a plan. He needed something, _anything_.

_Fuck._

His gut twisted, ire racing through his veins.

As the guards eyed them from amidst the crowd, as men and women laughed, spilling frothy ale, Uhtred and his men were silent for a while, bodies brushing against their backs. Uhtred could smell the food before them now, the slaps of roasted chicken, the small bowls of hot, thick stew – it was all so warm, so tantalizingly good, and his stomach ached, begging for more, but no one moved, not yet. A thousand thoughts spun through his head.

“What the hell just happened?” Finan asked, in English. Uhtred realized then that Finan, and probably Osferth too, had barely understood any of the Norse that had been spoken in the last hour. He let out a sigh, eyes straying back to Alfred again.

“They said they took Osferth to the healer.”

“No, I get that,” Finan scowled, and leaned forward from across the table, “But what the hell does that even mean? Did Thorrir tell this…Harald that Osferth was sick? Shit, we have to do _something_.”

“She said it was a Lady Snaefrid that ordered it,” Sihtric mumbled, dark eyes tracking through the raucous crowd, “A healer would be somewhere out of the compound. Back in the town.”

“If that is even where they took him,” Uhtred clenched his jaw.

“It was probably just a fucking excuse to get rid of him,” Finan bit, “The monk’s probably already _dead_ by now.”

“We don’t know that,” Sihtric frowned.

“Why the hell would they even take him to the healer? We’re supposed to be slaves, aren’t we? Who in the right mind – this _Harald._ Why would he send him to a healer?”

“Why would they lie? They have no reason-”

“Maybe it’s just a sick game,” Finan clenched his fist on the table, his rage, his fear plain on his face, “I don’t fucking understand a word that man says, but I don’t trust him. I don’t like him, Uhtred. Osferth is out there right now, probably terrified out of his mind, and we’re just sitting here, while that _bastard_ canoodles up to Alfred-”

“ _Quiet_ , Finan,” Uhtred snapped, and he glanced to the boisterous crowd, to make sure that no one could hear them. Finan looked back at him, eyes wide and bright, furious.

“We can’t just sit here.”

“We need a plan,” Uhtred looked back to the guards around them, axes gleaming at their belts, and he lowered his voice even more as the music crashed, “These guards are not going to let us pass. And we can’t leave Alfred here alone, with them.”

“No, but one of us could,” Finan leaned a little closer, “Sihtric or I, we could go after Osferth, lord. Maybe we could distract them, and then one of us slips out-”

“There are guards everywhere, Finan,” Sihtric shook his head.

“Yes, but we have to bloody try. We can’t just leave him-”

“We’re _not_ ,” Uhtred said, mind whirling, “But if we wait, we could have a better chance.”

He looked back to the guards, a couple of them already starting to look around, getting bored.

“The feast will distract them soon. Or they will get bored, and complacent. We need to wait until they are less wary of us. When everyone else is drunker too. Then, we can slip out.”

“There were guards all over the walls too,” Sihtric said, “We will only have one chance at this.”

“It could be too late,” Finan grimaced.

“We don’t have a choice, Finan,” Uhtred said, “If we try and we fail now, we’re all dead.” His heart pounded, panic rackling through his veins.

_The monk has to survive. He has to._

Guilt twisted like a lance through Uhtred’s chest again, and he pushed it back, claws grasping at his throat.

_Osferth will be alright. The healer. They took him to a healer._

Their words hung in the smoky warmth, like sinking, heavy weights. As the music tumbled on, wild and free, the crowd laughing and gossiping, Uhtred breathed in slowly, the air thick with the smell of hot, meaty stew. His stomach growled again, but he still couldn’t touch the food, worry gnawing at his bones. In front of him, Finan stewed quietly, brow furrowed, while Sihtric watched the crowd, shoulders tight.

_All we have to do is wait._

It was a terrible plan, but it was the only they had.

_Useless. So fucking pathetic._

Uhtred looked back up at Alfred, through the whirling bodies – the king was holding a drinking horn now, his face careful and blank. Harald sat close to him, chattering merrily, an arm swung casually over the back of his chair. Alfred replied something, voice lost in the crash, and Harald grinned wider, like a cat that’s got its cream.

_Fuck, shit, get away from him._

Uhtred grabbed a cup of ale and clenched his fist around it. His blood raged, searing red.

_Fuck him, fuck, fuckfuck-_

“Maybe we should eat now,” Finan said quietly – he was looking at Uhtred again, his eyes searching his face. His voice was suddenly calming, and he nodded his head at Uhtred’s hand clenched around the cup.

“We haven’t eaten all day, and we’re going to need our strength.”

“Why does he need Alfred to sit up there with him?” Uhtred gritted, “He’s too far away-”

“I know,” Finan nudged Uhtred’s plate a little closer towards him, “Now come on, eat first. Sihtric, you too.” The Irishman began to dig into his chicken, fingers tearing and shoving meat up into his mouth. Sihtric followed suit, carefully, and after a beat, Uhtred reached for a bowl of stew.

_Fuck me._

It was delicious, of course, warm and rich, full of tender meat – Uhtred gulped it down, suddenly ravenous, and in the next few minutes, no one said a word as they gobbled down everything they could. The ale rushed like surging gold, the chicken juicy and sweet.

_This is the first real food we’ve had in weeks._

For a moment, Uhtred could almost pretend that they were not captives, in their warm, clean clothes and their bellies full of meat.

He licked his fingers and went for another piece of chicken, his eyes straying up to the dais again – Alfred was saying something else to Harald, the latter still grinning.

_Was Harald going to even let him eat or is he just going to talk his ear off all night?_

Resentment churned in Uhtred’s gut, like a pit of snakes.

“So, what the fuck was that Harald saying earlier?” Finan said, from around a mouthful of meat, “I mean, I’m guessing we’re _his_ slaves now?” He didn’t seem as frantic anymore, though Uhtred knew the worry was not gone, buried away for a while, likely for Uhtred’s sake.

Uhtred swallowed back a gulp of ale, sweet and warm on his tongue.

“Thorrir gave us to him as tribute.” He quickly related to Finan everything that was said earlier, before the dais, all the talk of family and betrayals.

“One of the _lords_?” Finan’s eyes were wide, “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Uhtred scowled, the ale suddenly bitter in his mouth, “Thorrir said ‘they’. ‘They would have their throne.’ It could have been several of Alfred’s lords. All of them.”

“Would they really do that? Betray Alfred for the throne?” Sihtric asked. Up on the dais, Harald was yelling cheerfully to others down the table, cheeks flushed a little from the heat and ale. Alfred sat quietly beside him still, chewing cautiously at a piece of meat, firelight, shadows wavering about pale, cool face.

“Aethelwold would,” Finan grumbled, “That weasel has been waiting to do something like this for years. One of his plans must have finally worked.”

“Yes, but what lord in Wessex would even listen to him?” Uhtred shook his head, as a group of Northmen nearby laughed, brash and loud, “He has no allies in Winchester. Even if he got Thorrir to take Alfred away, even if they had some sort of deal, he could never convince the other lords that he’s good enough to sit on the throne.”

“Unless it was an invasion. Unless he has another group of Danes to fight for him. Without Alfred there, Wessex is weak.”

“Then why not let the Danes into Winchester and kill Alfred there, like Guthrum tried to do?” Uhtred tore into the bread, glaring up at Thorrir, “Why wait until he’s far away in the woods? No. Thorrir said ‘they’. No lord would work with Aethelwold. It _has_ to be someone else.”

“Who?” Sihtric’s eyes leapt with the flames, “Who would want Alfred gone?” The Dane looked up to the dais then, arm brushing against Uhtred’s, as if hoping to find the answer up there. Finan peered a little over his shoulder, mouth chewing, and they all watched as Harald barked something at one of the other Northmen, the dais crowded now, as bustling as the rest of the hall, men cheering, horns raised to the eaves.

Thorrir still gnawed at the lamb’s leg, face stony as another Northman prattled in his ear, ale sloshing. Alfred sipped on his ale, and Harald turned back to him, leaning just a little closer.

_Fuck-_

Uhtred clenched his jaw.

_Fuck, gods, I’m sick of this, I need, fuck-_

Rage simmered, and he breathed in slowly – and that was when he saw her again, sitting at the high table, the strange, dark-haired woman. She was still beside Harald, sitting on his left, but she wasn’t looking at Uhtred now. She gazed over at Alfred on Harald’s other side, head tilted slightly, quietly studying him.

_Who is that?_

Harald waved his hand towards her, as he regaled Alfred with some animated tale – and as Uhtred watched, the woman suddenly looked back at him, finding him immediately through the swirling crowd. Her eyes were as cold as a winter’s fog.

_Shit._

Something inside of Uhtred squeezed now, beneath her searching gaze, and he didn’t know who this woman was or what she wanted, but there it was again, that strange feeling in his chest.

_Like she knows me. Like she can see me._

_Just like Iseult could._

He couldn’t quite tear his gaze away from her pale face. Her eyes ripped through the smoke, and a thought whispered in his head.

_Cenric._

It came out of nowhere, but it was there now, unfurling in his mind, like tendrils of dark smoke.

_Cenric could have done it._

Fire raced up his back, realization shattering.

_Gods, fuck-_

He hadn’t even thought about that cunt in weeks, not since the woods, not since after Sceaf’s Isle. And why would he? Uhtred hadn’t even seen the man since that last night, before the attack at camp – but now, as the crowd danced, as the strange woman watched, his mind spun, staggering everywhere.

_Cenric was new to court. He came after Odda, after Beamfloat._

He remembered what Aethelwold had said about him, at the feast at Coccham.

_He became the ealdorman of Dorset only about a year ago, after his father’s death._

A young lord, battle-proven, haughty, attaching himself to Alfred’s side as soon as he could.

_Alfred was taking counsel with him, more than anyone. As if Cenric was trying to replace Odda._

Or trying to get as much information as he could, to tell Thorrir, to plan the coup. Uhtred could feel his blood scorch, raging dark flames.

_Who else could it be? Who fucking else-_

He had to talk to Alfred, he had to find out more – but he _knew_ there was a reason he couldn’t stand Cenric’s face. He _knew_ something was wrong about him.

_Or maybe you hated how handsome he was, how close to Alfred-_

No, no, _this_ is why. Cenric did this. Cenric had betrayed Alfred, and planned for his throne.

_I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking kill him._

“Uhtred, what is it?” Finan asked, peering at him over the rim of his ale cup. Sihtric looked back to him too, chewing on a chicken leg.

“Cenric,” Uhtred spat out, rage tearing at his veins, “It had to be Cenric.”

Sihtric furrowed his brow, confused.

“Who?” Finan frowned, and then his face cleared, remembering, “Oh, that young one? With the handsome face?”

“The ealdorman of Dorset,” Uhtred bit, “He’s the-”

“If you keep glaring at Harald like that, he’s only going to make it worse,” Leif said suddenly, through the endless clamor – the tall man was standing before them now, almost out of the blue, towering over their table, with a cup of ale in his hand. His cheeks were a little flushed, an easy smile across his face. Green eyes danced, cheeky and merrily.

_Shit._

Uhtred and his men froze, tensing – but Leif just dropped his cup down onto the table, beside Finan. He moved as easy as a cat.

“What?” Finan blurted out.

“Harald,” Leif replied, and slunk down onto the bench beside him, “You keep staring at him like that, and he’ll hump your king on that table, just to get rise out of you.”

No one spoke for a moment, as the music twirled. Leif gulped back some of his ale. Uhtred frowned, confused and uncertain, gut twisting itself into knots.

“Harald’s not paying any attention to us,” he said slowly, hesitantly, “He doesn’t-”

“Oh, Harald sees _everything_ ,” Leif quirked his lips, “Trust me. My cousin is…far more perceptive than he makes himself to be.”

“He knows we’re watching him?” Sihtric asked.

“Harald knows everything,” Leif peered back for a moment over his shoulder, back up to the dais, “There are rumours, stories of how the gods whisper in his ear. How Odin himself gifted him with the ears to hear all men’s thoughts, throughout Norway.”

“And you believe it?” Uhtred asked.

“No, it’s stupid. Harald’s just clever.”

“Cleverer than Thorrir?”

Leif smirked, his lips twisting a little with contempt.

“No one’s cleverer than Harald Fairhair,” he tipped his cup back and took another gulp of ale, “You’ll need to learn that, if you want to survive this place.”

_What is this?_

Uhtred felt his fists clench, unconsciously, as he glared down at his almost empty plate. He gritted his teeth, rage stirring.

“Is that what you’re doing then? Giving us advice?”

Amusement shone in Leif’s warm eyes. The tattooed wolves grinned wide at his temples – and then, as the fires crackled, warm and bright, as he met Uhtred’s fiery gaze, he sighed wearily, sagging back. The mask slipped from his handsome face. 

“You’re not slaves anymore,” he shrugged, and his eyes were calm now, his face strangely honest, “Well, not mine anyway. Our job was to get you here alive, to Harald, and well, now…now it just doesn’t seem fair.”

“To take slaves?” Finan replied, unamused.

“To bring Alfred here?” Uhtred reined back his snarl.

“To give you to _Harald_ ,” Leif peered a little over his shoulder again, back to the dais, “To give your king to him. I like him, you know. Your king. He’s well, polite.”

“He shouldn’t be here,” Uhtred snapped.

“You know how this works, Uhtred,” and he had no idea when Leif even learned his name, “You’re a Dane. There’s no such thing as right or wrong, not when it comes to battle. Alfred was necessary, for us.”

Uhtred tried to calm the raging storm thrashing through his veins. He reached forward to his cup, to drain it back – but he quickly remembered that he would need his head, if they were going after Osferth tonight. He forced his hand down instead, to his piece of warm bread, and stuffed it into his mouth, violently.

_I fucking hate this._

Up on the dais, Harald laughed, blonde curls tossing in the firelight. His arm were still swung over the back of Alfred’s chair, and Alfred himself was as still as before, almost regal. Beside him, Uhtred could see Thorrir talking now to a tall, blonde woman seated on his right. The strange, dark-haired woman was looking at Alfred again, as the crowd danced and laughed through the smoke.

_I want to kill them all. I want to burn this fucking place to the ground._

He chewed on his bread, irately. Sihtric watched Leif across from him, eyes dark and wary, while Finan just scowled down to his empty place. A Northman leapt onto a nearby table, drunk, garbling nonsense as his friends cheered him on, their voices crashing through the endless din.

“Why?” Uhtred asked, his voice low.

“Hm?” Leif raised a fair eyebrow.

“Why was Alfred necessary? Why did Thorrir bring him here?”  
  
Leif heaved out another heavy sigh.

“Because he knows what Harald likes. He knows what he is like about…glory. About shiny things.”

“Alfred’s not a _thing_.”

“No, but he is a king. A great Saxon king,” shadows danced about Leif’s pale face, his beard golden in the firelight, “They talk about Alfred even up here, you know. No one has ever - I mean England was supposed to _easy._ Perfect, raiding ground for everyone.”

“Until Alfred,” Sihtric supplied simply.

“Until your king,” Leif nodded, “Alfred, he’s a prize. The great Saxon king that bested us and now has been bested and made a slave. Thorrir knew Harald would love a gift like that. He believed it was the only way to win back his favour.”

Uhtred scoffed, jaw tight.

“By working for someone who betrayed Alfred?”

“By _besting_ him,” Leif leaned a little closer, eyes calm, “Harald always wants to win, no matter what. Especially if he barely has to lift a finger. Especially, if someone as revered as Thorrir, is desperate enough to win glory on his behalf.”

Leif pulled his cup back up to his mouth and drained it. He wiped the froth from his lips, hair gleaming down his back like beaten copper. Something twisted at his lips again, something a little bitter. He waved his hand to a passing servant girl, and they all their cups filled, ale sloshing to the brim, glimmering gold.

“Thorrir only did what he needed to do,” the tall man studied the swirling ale.

“You ever get tired of kissing his arse?” Uhtred scowled, fury rumbling. Leif grinned, amused and bright.

“He’s my family. I go where he goes. I do as he says. Would you not do the same for your king, Uhtred?”

“ _No_ ,” Uhtred bit, “Alfred’s not my family.”

_Lies._

No, not lies, but Uhtred didn’t have the time to unpack any of it. His gaze strayed up again to the dais – and Alfred was looking back at him now, through the dizzying, dark crowd, blue eyes ripping through the curling, black smoke.

_Gods._

It was only for a moment, before the king looked back again to Harald, but something inside of Uhtred _ached._

_I should be there, I should be by his side. I should be protecting him, covering his back-_

He closed his eyes briefly, heart wrenching.

_What am I doing? Why the fuck am I just sitting here?_

Leif spoke again, voice quieter now, eyes trained on Uhtred’s face.

“Harald won’t kill him.”

“Not yet,” Uhtred said.

“Harald likes to play with his food,” Leif shook his head, “That means you have time. You all have time. If your king is as smart as they say, he’ll figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Finan asked.

“The _game_. Harald’s game. This is all just part of his game,” Leif’s green eyes shone, honest and open, “Today, he will keep you alive. Feed you, clothe you. Tomorrow is another matter, but it’s all just a game to him. You must remember that. You must play his game.”

_Game?_

The white of Alfred’s new tunic seemed to make him skin glow, even from afar, through the murky, busy hall.

“Why are you trying to help us?” Uhtred asked, quietly. Leif’s smile creased evermore across his face.

“Because you’re an idiot,” he said, amusedly, “Because you remind me of someone I knew. Reckless, stupid, and almost endearingly loyal. Because something tells me you’re planning something tonight, and it’s not going to work. It’s only going to leave Alfred without you to protect him.”

Uhtred felt his gut tighten.

“You don’t know-”

“You have to wait. You have to play his game. That’s the only chance any of this will work.”

“And why the hell should we trust you?” Finan grouched.

“You see anybody else here?” Leif waved his cup of ale to the boisterous crowd, “ But, sure, go ahead. Go try to fight your way out of here, and leave Alfred alone, with _him._ ”

The silence sunk around them, like the cold, black depths of the sea. Uhtred felt the black claws crush around his throat, fear twisting beneath his skin.

_Fuck, what do I do?_

He couldn’t trust Leif, he took them here, he gave them to Harald. He was one of _them,_ he called Harald his cousin, for gods sake-

_But hasn’t he been trying to help us a little bit, this whole time? Hasn’t he always been a bit kind?_

And that was no reason at all to trust him, but why was Leif even helping them now? What was the point of anything he said?

_What does he want from us?_

Uhtred looked at Alfred, then back to Leif, meeting his calm, quiet gaze. Children scampered by their table, chasing a hound, as the fires spat, dancing, twirling embers. Uhtred had to be careful in what he said next.

“Osferth,” his words felt like lead on his tongue, “They said they took him to a healer.”

Leif looked around their table, as if just realizing they were one short, and his body tensed, shoulders rising up.

“The boy? The, the one with the bad leg?” He said the last few words more quietly. Sihtric and Finan tensed too, the latter looking back at Uhtred uncertainly.

Uhtred nodded, the smoke snaking around his throat.

“A servant girl took him away. She said a Lady Snaefrid ordered it?”

Leif sagged back, a grin breaking across his fair face.

“Oh, oh that’s fine then,” he said, almost relieved, “He’s safe. You don’t have worry about it.”

Uhtred exchanged glances with his men, brow furrowing. A group of drunken Northmen and women near the doors broke out into song, arms looped around each other, voices coarse. The flood thundered from a hundred dancing feet.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Uhtred tried not to growl, “What does-”

“I mean that if Lady Snaefrid is the one who ordered it, then your boy is safe,” Leif replied, “She won’t let them hurt him.”

“Who the hell is this Lady _Snaefrid_?” Finan asked, and Leif swung his leg over the bench and sat astride it, so he could easily turn between them and the dais. He nodded his head up to the high table.

“There, beside Harald,” and it was her, the strange, dark-haired woman, talking to Alfred now, as Harald gazed on, his cheeks flushed. A small smile curled across her beautiful face, as she leaned towards Alfred, voice lost in the din.

_Her?_

“Her?” Finan echoed, scrunching his nose.

“Who is she?” Uhtred asked Leif, and the tall man shot a quick smile back at him.

“Well, she’s Harald’s wife. One of his wives.”

“One of them?” Finan asked.

“He has three,” Leif shrugged, “And too many concubines to count. Most of them live with their families, and their children, away from here. Only two of Harald’s wives are allowed to live here with him, in Alrekstad. Queen Gyda’s orders, apparently.”

At their frowns, Leif nodded his head to the woman beside Thorrir, tall and still, like a gold pillar.

“That’s Harald’s first wife. The only one they call Queen.” A gold necklace glimmered upon her long, pale neck. She was a slightly older woman, about Alfred’s age, with a proud, noble face, and blonde hair that flowed like endless seas of gold. She was beautiful too, very much so, and even from afar, Uhtred could tell she was heavy with child. Behind her, he could now see servants caring for a few small children, a babe swaddled in a plump slave’s arms. 

_How did I not see her before?_

She stared down at her plate, as Alfred replied something back to the Lady Snaefrid, poised and stately. A cat scampered up to their table, and Sihtric shooed it away, its grey tail flicking through the smoky warmth.

_Who are these people?_

Uhtred looked back at Snaefrid, her hair as dark as a raven’s wings.

“You know her?” he asked Leif. The tall Northman shrugged, and then nodded his head.

“Harald married her about a year before Thorrir and I left Norway. I knew her well. Well, as well as anyone can ever know Snaefrid.” His green eyes glittered now, with his usual mischief.

“But you trust her?” Finan pushed.

“Well, a little. Maybe, it has been years,” Leif leaned forward and lowered his voice, cheeks reddened, “But she’s not Harald. Or Gyda. Or even Thorrir. If she sent your boy to the healer, then she may actually be trying to help you.”

“ _Why_?” Uhtred gritted. Leif shrugged again, fires dancing.

“Who knows why Snaefrid does the things she does? At least she took him out of here before Harald’s moods changed on him. Gods know what he would have done if he had the time to deal with your boy.”

“But how can we even trust-”

“You _can’t_ ,” Leif drained his cup one more time. His eyes glimmered, shadows leaping about his cheeks. His face was calm now, the smile gone.

“You don’t have a choice,” he said, “Well, you could try to fight your way out of here tonight, and the men will cut you down. Or maybe, you make it past the wall, and down to your boy – how is he going to run on his bad leg then? How are you going to get your king out? Look at them. Harald’s not letting him out of his sight tonight.”

Uhtred stared at the tall Northman, wrath and dread tearing through his gut.

_Fuck you, fuck you, I know-_

“You have to play the game,” Leif’s warm, green eyes glowed with the flames, “You have to think, Uhtred. Or you’re all going to die.”

_Fuck you._

Uhtred wanted to rage, to howl. He clenched his fist around his ale cup again. He looked up to the dais – and Alfred was already watching him, blue eyes dark as the shadows danced. His face was inscrutable, as the crowd sang and laughed, as Harald chattered, teeth gleaming bright.

_What the fuck are we going to do?_

Sihtric and Finan were silent now, brooding, scowling at their plates. Leif sipped at his ale, quietly, and Uhtred just held Alfred’s gaze, as the dread burned in his heart, like embers glowing, drifting through the curling smoke.

* * *

The room was icy and black, the wind moaning quietly, as it whispered through the gaps in the creaking, wooden walls. The ground was cold, the frost of the earth slithering up through the floorboards, and wrapping around their bones, like great, black snakes. There was no fire in this room, no torch nor hearth, except for the glimpse of light seeping in from the hallway. They only had each other’s warmth, their breaths fogging white into the dark.

_At least they gave us blankets. It's better than the fucking ship._

Uhtred rolled onto his back and pulled his wool cover closer to his chin. Beyond the dark doorway, behind the thick, cloth curtains, weapons clinked, wood creaking beneath heavy feet.

_How many of them are out there now? 2 guards? 4?_

There was no way out of the room but through that door, bristling with guards, shadows moving behind the wavering drapes. The dark stirred, the walls moving as if they breathed. Finan heaved out a weary sigh, as Alfred shuffled in the dark, his arm brushing for a moment against Uhtred’s.

_How am I supposed to fight through those guards? I won’t even make it past the fucking hallway._

It had only been an hour or so since the feast ended, since the longhouse finally quieted. Snores drifted through the icy dark – the music had long died, and almost everyone was asleep now, drunk and full of food. The air still smelt of ash, and every whisper, every creak muttered through the wooden walls – as if there were no secrets here, beneath the eaves of Harald’s great home.

_I wonder if I wait a little while, if the guards would leave then._

Uhtred knew they wouldn’t. He wouldn’t get a chance. He sighed, and squirmed on the cold, hard ground, the cloth beneath him barely enough to keep back the gnawing chill.

_I should have gone earlier. I should have made a run for it, for Osferth._

Leif’s words echoed in his head, like a song.

_Idiot. Stupid. Useless, pathetic._

Alfred’s voice broke through the stirring black, right beside Uhtred.

“King Harald, he said he would move us to another room tomorrow. Somewhere with beds, I think,” he whispered into the endless night. In their room, in this small, little corner of the house, it was only the four of them now, laid on their backs, trying to sleep on the ice cold ground.

Finan sighed again, near Uhtred. Sihtric shifted, his blanket rustling. Footsteps echoed from out in the dark hallway.

“How _nice_ of him,” Uhtred’s lips twisted, blood simmering, “I should thank him tomorrow, you know, before he decides to kill us.”

Alfred sighed, breath white.

“Uhtred-”

“What did he even say to you? At the table?” He couldn’t see Alfred, not really, through the quiet dark, but he could _feel_ him, lying warm by his side. Their voices were soft, but they had to be careful – gods know what the guards would do if they heard them talk.

_Are we even allowed to talk? Are we slaves, prisoners?_

At least on the ship, with Thorrir and Leif, it was a little clearer. Finan shuffled closer, burning warm.

“Did he say anything about Osferth, lord?” he muttered. Alfred sighed yet again, heavy and weary.

“No. He made no indication of knowing about it. I didn’t ask him. The servant, she said it was the Lady Snaefrid that sent him away.”

“And you talked to her,” Uhtred stated.

“Briefly,” Alfred replied, “She seemed…lovely. Clever. Her accent was different, so it was a little harder to understand her.”

“But Osferth?”

“Nothing. She said nothing about him. What about Leif? What did he say?”

In the bone-cold dark, in the rustling quiet, Uhtred turned his head a little to look at Alfred – he could barely see him in the gloom, his face turned up towards the dark ceiling.

_Of course he noticed Leif at our table._

Uhtred gritted his teeth, as that conversation resounded through his head.

“He said the monk was probably safe.”

“Probably?” Alfred echoed.

“We should have tried it, Uhtred,” Finan whispered, “We should have-”

“No,” Uhtred’s heart felt like a stone in his chest, “No.” He stared up at the never-ending dark, as Alfred’s arm brushed against his once again, a touch of warmth in the cold, black room.

_No. No. There was no way._

The guards had watched them all night, never straying for a moment –and Uhtred had his men never had a chance to cause a distraction, to slip out the doors, to find Osferth. Leif had left them sometime during the feast, dragged away by drunk, young men, but his words had stayed and glued Uhtred to his seat-

_Because what if he was right? Fuck, if I had tried to do something, then Alfred, I couldn’t just leave Alfred-_

Uhtred could feel the black claws grasp around his gut. Guilt burned, even now as the darkness closed. There were only a few hours left to dawn, but it changed nothing, he still hadn’t done _anything_.

_I should have tried something, anything. Osferth is here because of me._

He breathed out, shame curdling, worry gnawing. Sihtric shifted again, and whispered.

“If you want, lord, I could try to-”

“There are four guards out there, at least. Don’t be stupid,” Alfred’s voice cut, “No, Osferth is smart. He can survive one night.”

Uhtred scoffed, as the black claws crushed.

“You know nothing about the boy,” his voice was bitter and harsh. He felt Alfred stiffen beside him, and maybe it was the exhaustion, the fatigue, or maybe it was the sunken dark, but for a moment, for just a moment, the truth slithered out, into the quiet black.

“ _I_ know nothing about him. And he’s here because of me.” He felt as if his ribs had been cut open, his heart exposed, his fear, his darkness bare to all, to Alfred, for just a breath. The room was silent, the dark shifting, as the walls creaked. Uhtred wondered if the gods were watching him now.

_Do they scowl at my endless self-pity?_

He didn’t know why he had even said that.

_I’m too fucking exhausted._

“Osferth made his own choices, lord,” Finan whispered, after a breath. Alfred’s voice was calm and strong now.

“You’re not the one who hurt him. _They_ are,” he muttered, “You wouldn’t have brought Osferth into battle if you didn’t think he could survive without you for one night. No, we will simply have to survive this, all of us.”

Uhtred turned his head again, towards Alfred’s shadowy form. The cold sunk into his bones.

“Just like that?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes, just like that.”

“And Harald. He… doesn’t scare you?”

“Why should he, Uhtred? He’s just a pagan,” Alfred replied, “ A king, yes, but still a pagan.”

Uhtred couldn’t help the brush of warmth in his chest.

_Typical Alfred._

His lips twitched a little, the warmth unfurling like golden threads.

“Your God will protect you?” he asked, something almost teasing in his voice.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Alfred replied, and Uhtred felt his heart skip, leaping to his mouth.

_Fuck._

Sihtric and Finan were silent now, but not asleep, listening quietly in the dark – even then, it felt a little like it was just Uhtred and Alfred now, talking blindly into the night. 

_What the fuck does that mean?_

Nothing, it meant nothing, of course – he had too many things to worry about, to wonder at Alfred’s words. He had to focus on Osferth, to come up with new plan.

_Is that how he sees me? As some sort of tool, of his God? Well, of course it is-_

_No stop, focus on Osferth._

The monk could be dying and he was just lying there, basking in the warmth twirling through his chest.

_Useless. Pathetic._

The golden threads near his heart cooled and shrivelled, like rotting roots.

_What am I going to do?_

In the silence, in the dark, he reached out a hand, instinctively – and found Alfred’s lying by his side, on the cold, hard ground. There was no hesitation this time, just it had been on the ship, quick and fast, his fingers grazing against the top of Alfred’s knuckles. The king froze, and Uhtred heard his breath catch through the dark.

_Fuck, wait._

He slid his fingers through Alfred’s, the skin cold and soft against his palm. Without another thought, he pulled their hands back towards him, and Alfred let him, blankets rustling.

_Fuck, fuck-_

Uhtred could feel the warmth in his chest bloom again, spilling gold, as his heart thumped, racing wild and free. He was too tired to stop himself, too absolutely beat down – he just _needed_ Alfred, just once more, just tonight. He pulled their hands up to his own chest and laid them there, entwined, near his heart.

_What am I doing?_

Finan and Sihtric surely couldn’t see them, had no idea what just happened, but Uhtred could _feel_ Alfred’s hand through his tunic. It felt right. It felt more like than right, it was perfect, like Alfred’s hand was always meant to be there, clasped in his.

The king did nothing, said nothing, as the darkness stirred. Uhtred brushed his thumb over Alfred’s soft skin. The grey knot of rag on his necklet sat upon his bare chest, hidden away, just an inch above their clasped hands. His heart sang, as the golden warmth filled his world.

“I don’t trust him,” Uhtred muttered, heart pounding.

“Who?” Alfred’s voice was almost sharp, his hand loose in Uhtred’s grasp.

“Harald,” Uhtred replied, thumb stroking slowly, “Leif warned us.”

“I don’t trust _Leif_ ,” Finan grouched, clearly still alert.

“We don’t trust anyone,” Uhtred agreed, “But Harald-”

“He’s clever,” Alfred’s voice was as cool as the stones, “Cleverer than he pretends to be.”

Uhtred didn’t dare to look at him – he just kept brushing his thumb over his knuckles, the king’s hand a great comfort upon his chest.

_How is he even letting me do this? Why the fuck am I doing this?_

“Why? Why pretend?” Uhtred willed himself to focus on his words, to ignore the never-ending thump of his heart.

“I don’t know,” Alfred replied, and Leif’s words resounded, loud and clear, through Uhtred’s head again.

_You have to play his game._

He stared up into the inky black, shadows rustling, the ceiling above an endless, cold dark.

_But what? What game is it? How am I supposed to do this?_

“Osferth will survive, Uhtred,” Alfred said quietly, and as the darkness whispered, as the walls creaked and moaned, as the cold sank into their bones, Uhtred pressed Alfred’s hand a little tighter against his chest, skin warming beneath his palm. The golden threads glowed through the dark. His heart sang a soft, quiet tune. At long last, sleep took him, Alfred’s hand still clutched near his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys! I'm quite glad I got this one out slightly earlier than usual. I don't know, the inspiration just flowed on this one! I don't want to be a stickler about the languages but it just fucking bugs me that TLK doesn't show the difference...but never mind! Forget that! I hoped you enjoyed this!
> 
> Historical note: As Leif insinuated, the Harald here is indeed the semi-legendary first king of Norway, King Harald Fairhair. His reign does coincide with Alfred's, Edward's and even Athelstan's. He very most likely existed, but some of the stories about him may not be true. Everything above about him is accurate - he did have many wives and concubines, he lived in Alrekstad. The Guthrom he referred to earlier was indeed his uncle, though not to be confused with TLK's own Guthrum. Thorrir and Leif are my own creations, but Snaefrid and Gyda were real - and I will explore that later on. 
> 
> Sorry to rant guys, but I hope you enjoyed this one! Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and kudos. (And yes, another handhold. When are these idiots going to get it together?) Either way, stay safe and see you soon!


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